


Lethal

by EverythingisBlue (orphan_account)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Post-Avengers (2012), And Loki is An Asshole., BAMF Women, Background Femslash, Background Het, Bilingual Character(s), Brother Feels, Brother-Sister Relationships, Comfort/Angst, Female Character of Color, Female Characters, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hell is a Teenaged Girl, Loki Angst, Loki Feels, Loki Redemption, Multi, Mythology - Freeform, Not Canon Compliant, Original Character(s), Queer Character, References to Norse Religion & Lore, The Author Regrets Nothing and Everything, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-27 00:36:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 36,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/EverythingisBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"god should have made girls lethal<br/>when he made monsters of men."</p><p>After months of torture for his oh-so many crimes, Loki is banished to Midgard - specifically Denmark - with nothing left of Asgard but the body he's in, absolutely powerless, and with no hope of recovery, return or salvation. With his fate now his own to claim, to create, to enjoy and to destroy, he must find his way in this world, find what he wants and who he is - and if he can ever get back.</p><p>Only his return is reliant on something he lacks, but depends so heavily that he must find it before his enemies find him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This began like, a year ago. I wanted to see what would happen if you took a character out of a certain environment and put him in another (but I also am a sucker for redemption stories); It's kind-of been done before, but I couldn't resist. 
> 
> And then I realised that I'd dug myself a hole and therefore had to find my way out as eloquently as possible. I think... I may still be in the hole. Send help.
> 
> 1) My Danish is questionable at best (but getting better). Sorry for any mistakes.  
> 2) Chapters will have notes at the beginning as to their individual triggers.  
> 3) I only own my characters.

They bring him in chains, and she cannot bring herself to look him in the eye as he is forced to kneel before the King. He is beaten, bruised, and tortured to within an inch of his life, and driven half mad, madder than ever before. He has been crushed into pieces and sewn together; a statement unfortunately literal as fresh blood drips from the new stitches digging into his lips.

"Loki, son of Laufey-"

 _No._ Her mind yells. _He is not Laufey's son. He is **my** son._

She will not listen as the charges are read. She cannot bear to imagine her son as Loki the monster, responsible for so much death and pain – the monster and the man she knows, and has known from infancy, could never be the same, and the idea that they might be… It is too much for her already shattered heart to stand.

In the space of days, her beloved son has gone from dead to alive. At first, her joy had been beyond compare. But then they told her the harsh truth.

Now stood at the side of her husband, she cannot force herself to understand as effortlessly as Odin can. She never could, and never will. A mother will always forgive her child.

Odin opens his mouth to deliver the final verdict, and Frigga holds her breath for just a moment, both treasuring and enduring her one moment of ignorance. The pendulum swings between exile and execution; two solutions that will rid Asgard of its' problem and wrench her son from her, perhaps forever. Death may be preferable, so that neither of them need suffer: he need not suffer a life in exile and torture, and she would no longer be forced to see her son in chains, nor tolerate watching him suffer on some uncharted corner of the universe, knowing there is a way to stop it and, at the same time, knowing there is no way she alone can alleviate his sentence. She has walked that road before and is certainly not keen to walk it again. Death is preferable; no mother wants their child to suffer, nor wishes to sit through it.

"The sentence: exile!"

Yet again she is losing a son, but this time, she has grown to fear for him, as they have grown to fear Loki. She rightly knows that no being in the nine realms will be able to look past the monster and see her son; they won’t have the mercy, for often if a man is what you fear, it is all too easy to kill the man and free yourself.

The guards drag him away, and in the fleeting second she takes to dare look up, he catches her eye. His face screams of absolute pain and she knows that there is nothing she can do to stop this. She knows this will be the last time she sees him and this is not how she wishes to remember him: bloodied and broken, in more pain than she had ever envisioned for him. If she had any say in his destiny, this would not have been his life.

Yet she knows that others believe differently, that he was always fated to be this way. But, in her heart and for as long as she lives, he will not be tarnished with such a fate, even if it means holding onto crumbling lies and never ever letting go.

 

Later, in the sanctuary of her chambers, she looks out and waits for a sign. With the Bifrost in pieces, it is harder to leap between realms so easily, yet somehow, with the power the Allfather can conjure, he will find a way to rid Asgard of its' problem. There are methods infused with magic only he knows; a terrible privilege bestowed to the most powerful.

Which realm will Loki find himself on? The fires of Muspelheim, or the ruined ice temples of Jotunheim, or the lakes of Vanaheim or perhaps… no, Odin would never, she knows it. But her mind indulges the fantasy – Loki on Midgard, amongst the humans he so despises; one last cruel twist of fate.

No, Odin would not be so irresponsible to leave Loki in the midst of those he hates. It would be pure carnage. He has grown insane and merciless – although she may never accept it truly – and with mortals being so vulnerable, that dangerous combination is as unwise as it is unlikely.

She hears a knock on the door, and braces herself yet again for news. How much more will she have to endure before this is over, once and for all?

"Enter." She calls, turning to welcome her visitor whilst hastily burying her thoughts at the back of her mind. Odin enters and she glances away.

"I have news of… him." Odin begins tentatively, unable to speak lest she be hurt by his words. She nods, silently bidding him to continue, "He… The traitor is gone."

"Where?"

"Midgard, but this time, his fate is beyond my control." The idea of something beyond his control would be laughable, were it not for Frigga realising the true gravity of that statement.

"Midgard?" She echoes in disbelief. "How could you? Of all the realms, you know better than any how much of a risk that carries. How could you have gone through with it?"

"This realm and those like it are old, gnarled by time," His voice is heavy with regret and foreign exhaustion, almost hopeless; yet even in the darkest of times, there was still hope, "Time and war. There is nothing here for him, but now we must place our hope in Midgard, for there is always something there. There was before and will be again."

"But his power-"

"Has been taken from him, along with his immortality; both are no longer his concern, as from the moment he hits the dirt he will be mortal. It is for the best."

He watches as she withdraws to her thoughts, and realises that a mother will always love her child no matter what, even though Odin himself will never love their sons equally. With those thoughts heavy on his mind, he leaves to return to the throne room and leaves her alone.

She stares to the horizon, knowing that in some small corner of Midgard Loki cowers, robbed of power and immortality and perhaps still bound, and ultimately hopeless. If he survives at all, he will suffer alone. Asgard has weakened him, stolen his powers, and maddened him with betrayal and torture, to the point that he is almost like a lamb left to the wolves. But even then there is hope nonetheless; that the soul who finds him might look past the monster they know, might look through a face marred by pain and see something else – they might even forgive. For that, she cannot give up believing in the good of a mortal heart. Such does exist even in the darkest of nights, and she must hope for that. In fact, all she can do now is hope.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't quite know if this is true Denmark, or Denmark according to a Nephew song. That said, Nephew are an amazing band, but I digress. By the way, Jutland is the largest part of Denmark, attached to Germany, and is where Legos are from.

"Finally," Miss Sørensen concludes as the afternoon wanes on. Although young, a few months into the job and bubbling with unflinching enthusiasm, she’d lost most of them within minutes, "the question you must ask yourself, that you must all ask yourself, is this: why does anyone bully? What motivates a person to pick on another? And you need to consider this in all aspects: why countries invade other countries, why some businesses do well and some don't, in history, politics, economics, etc.; you need to think about what it is that drives someone to want to dominate over another. In the last few minutes, could anyone here answer?"

The redhead at the back, sunk into her chair, raises her hand. A hint of confidence falters in her eyes. Beside her, her classmate sleepily glances at her, but doesn’t move.

“Ida?”

She leans forwards on the desk, with both elbows apart, and answers, "A bully wants control. They don't have over their own lives – they've their own problems, which makes them angry, but they don't know why and therefore have no control their emotions. So they take it out on other people in order to have control, and to feel big."

“Would you then say that they deserve sympathy?”

“No,” she determines firmly. “The whole point of living is that you have to fight it out, for good rather than bad.”

"Interesting," the teacher notes as the bell rings. "Alright class, do your essays for the week back and have a good holiday!"

The rest of the class clears out as Ida shoves her things into her rucksack and rushes out of the room, down the corridor. As people stream out of the building, she notices two girls haunting the main exit. One is tiny, with large glasses and bushy dark hair, busying herself with her phone as she leans on the side of the other, tall, pink-haired and heavy-set, searching the crowd.

"Hey," Tove, the taller one, says as Ida reaches them. The shorter one – Sofie – doesn’t look up as Tove continues, “Well, I need to go.”

“You only stayed for me, didn’t you?”

“Why else would I?” She asks, grinning. Ida rolls her eyes, but smiles.

“What’s it today?”

“Taekwondo.”

“How is that different from karate, or kendo?”

“No time to explain,” she answers, tapping Sofie’s shoulder, “Goodbye kiss?”

“Busy,” she mutters. Tove plants a quick peck on her temple and runs off. Sofie finally looks up, watching her go.

“What are you doing?" Ida asks.

"I can now hack into any infrastructure within eighteen kilometres without being traced,” she brags, quiet and quick. “But only for three minutes.”

“Sof, isn’t that dangerous?”

“Anything big requires strategically jumping from mainframe to mainframe, which outruns the code life. Besides,” She scoffs, “You really think that corporations and governments would kill to get their hands on this?”

“They have before.”

“Ida, you know that no one will ever know what I do as long as I am stuck here.”

“Maybe we should keep it that way.” Sofie grimaces. “I have to go.”

“See you.”

Ida hurries to the bike rack, digging the key from her pocket as she kneels in the snow and unlocks her bike.

"You free tonight?" A voice comments from above her. She looks up at the figure looming over her and meets the acne-riddled face of a boy from the year above, Mikkel, leering at her, stood with hands in his pockets and his legs either side of her front wheel.

“For the hundredth time, I’m not interested," she counters, exasperated to the point of anger, as she gets up and on the bike.

"I'll just remind you then: you still owe me." He spits the last words, leaning over the handlebars. Her blood runs cold.

"I don't owe you anything."

"You're a bitch, you know that?"

"Yeah, and so does everyone else, thanks to you. Now move your ass before I mow it down."

"Funny, you’re not like this to everyone. Am I getting special treatment?”

"Yeah, I hate you so much I won't give you the courtesy of being subtle. _Move_."

“Oh, you hate me?” He coos, “Aw, I'm wounded. Why darling, why would you say such a thing?"

"You know why.”

“Yeah, and so does everyone else.”

Impatient, she pushes her weight forward and knocks him to the side, speeding off in relief. She races through the sleepy town; down streets knitted into each other tightly, as flat rust-brown houses stare at her, until she gets home on the very outskirts of town.

Her mother closes the front door, in a pristine suit, poised on practical heels, suitcase in hand, hair and makeup both natural, and yet perfectly done.

“Hey,” Ida greets, and her mother smiles at her. She places her bag in the open car, closes the door, and then begins to count off each important thing on manicured fingers:

“Fridge is full, bills are paid, your brother will be here by six, and the emergency numbers are by the phone.”

“I know.”

She walks over, takes her daughter’s face into soft hands, and kisses her forehead.

“I love you, darling.”

“Love you, Mum.”

“I’ll be back Saturday night,” she pledges. “Hey, know what the Japanese for success is?”

Her mother’s eyes are so full of child-like wonder and excitement that Ida smiles, shaking her head. “ _Seikō_.”

“Good luck?”

“ _Ganbatte_.”

“ _Ganbatte_ , Mum. Bring me back something cool, ok?”

“Will do!” She gets in the car, starts the engine, and drives off, as Ida wheels the bike inside, negotiates it onto its’ hind wheels, and rests it on the wall to her right, kicking the door closed in the process. She slips her coat and shoes off, then wanders through to the living room, turns on the TV, and crashes onto the sofa.

 

The phone rings, waking her up. The clock on the wall reads six as she squints at it through the hazy darkness, hindered by both the streetlights outside and the TV. Turning the light on, she stumbles into the hall to answer the phone, spotting the post-it note stuck on the receiver. She presses it onto a photo-frame, sat aside the handset, and covers most of her eight-year-old self’s face.

"Hey kiddo," Lukas answers. "I’ve good news and bad news – which one do you want first?"

"Bad news."

"I'm not gonna make it tonight. I’m so sorry, I'm swamped with work.”

“But I haven’t seen you in ages!” She argues, “You got two days at Christmas, surely you haven’t used up all your free days.”

“You know my boss is an asshole. But besides, you’re eighteen, you can look after yourself.”

“I know, but it just pisses me off.”

“Hey, you want to know the good news? I brought you those books you asked for."

"You’re the best."

"I know, I know. Look, I have to go; I’ve got an early start tomorrow. Speak tomorrow maybe? Miss you."

"Yeah, miss you too." He hangs up

She turns the TV off, hurries to her room, wrestles her telescope out of the cupboard, and sets it up at the window, then draws back the curtains and looks up to the worlds beyond her. The night is so cloudless that she can see every star, until each constellation lights up; even a little sliver of the Milky Way provides a beautiful scar against the night’s star-freckled, purple velvet skin. With that, she begins to dream. It seems like a childish fantasy, to believe that maybe alien worlds might exist, but every now and then, she disappears into worlds of her creation, full of mystery and wonder, through interstellar jungles and the cavernous corners of absolute deep space; running away to somewhere perfect.

 

Later, in the small hours of the morning, she notices something strange. In the very furthermost corner of the sky, a crack of light bleeds colour across the sky, and it’s so small she has to take a second glance to notice, then marvels at it. It looks a little like an aurora but wrong, out of place, too far south; even if the chances of one are higher now then they will be in decades. It grows wider and more restless, like a desperate animal, and reaches down towards the Earth, gathering a cloak of cloud around it and throwing lightning to the expanse of field beyond the window. Dressed in storms, it growls and roars for attention.

Now fascinated, and determined to know more, she grabs some things, throws them in bag, snatches her coat and grabs her bike, then speeds along the flat trails of dirt that sew a patchwork quilt of dead fields together, with the wind running through her hair. The anomaly is almost tangible, only be a few kilometres away. It then floods vivid light into the dusty ground with enough force to knock Ida back off her bike, which then meanders away. Undeterred, she runs forward to where the smoke clears and, snatching her torch from her bag, begins to search, maybe for a meteorite, among the settling dust.

As the clouds clear, she notices _**it**_ – scattered a few metres away from her is a figure, possibly an alien, hunched on the ground, shuddering with each sob. Most people would run. But she nonetheless approaches, and gently puts a hand on what may be a shoulder, rolling the figure onto its back. She jerks back, shocked by the extent of the grotesque details: they're male, she assumes, with cuts and swollen purple bruises swallowing most of his face and worst of all, his lips are sewn together, still bleeding. His weary green eyes glance at her then widen as he scrambles away, pushing on bound wrists and ankles, and tries to protest through his stitches.

" _Nej_ ," she says, " _Jeg vil hjælpe De_ -"

But he attempts one hulking, horrific scream, and she realises that he doesn't understand her.

"Um… _S-sprechen Sie Deutsch_?" The screaming doesn't stop, " _Talar Ni svenska_?... Do you speak English?"

His screaming fades and he glares at her. She pushes on.

"I'm going to help you. Don't be scared. I won't hurt you."

She reaches into her bag, producing a Swiss Army Knife. When he sees the blade, he cringes away.

"No, no, I won't hurt you, I promise. But you have to stay still. Hold out your hands."

Though worried, he does and, with the knife in one hand and torch in the other, she rips his bounds apart. As he enjoys the feel of his wrists being finally freed, she does the same to his ankles.

"See? I won't hurt you." She approaches him, "Will you hold still for me?"

He nods and she holds the torch between her teeth, one hand under his chin and her knife in the other, and then gently cuts each stitch out until the remainders dangle from his open lips, dripping with blood. He scrambles to his feet and pushes her away into the mud, the knife clattering at his feet. He yanks away the strings in his mouth like a rabid beast, throwing blood into the air, and screams at the sky as if he wants to bring it down.

"You!" He roars at her, now cowering below him, "Where am I?"

"D-Denmark. I-I mean Earth. Planet Earth-”

"Midgard." He spits hoarsely, "DAMN YOU ODIN!"

_Odin? But it's impossible._

"Who are you?" She asks, too petrified to move as a lunatic limps in vague circles and curses old Gods under his breath.

"Who are you, to dare ask my name?"

"My name is Ida, Ida Christensen."

"I, son of Christen, am Loki of Asgard."

_Shit._


	3. Chapter 3

When Ida was younger, Lukas read to her in order to get her to sleep – at first, he read fables and simpler tales and, as they grew, he moved onto the classics, from The Brothers Grimm to Hans Christian Andersen and further into folklore, to stories of trolls, elves, and towering giants. But the most exciting stories were of gods: The Gods of Asgard; the mighty Thor, wielding Mjølnir; the Valkyries, beautiful maidens who collected slain warriors and took them to Valhalla; the ever young Idunn and the ever beautiful Freyja; Odin, king of all … and Loki, the trickster.

The silver-tongued lie-smith whose words felled men, whose deeds brought about Ragnarøk, who was a lesson that to be a liar is the worst thing you can be. The man he claims to be.

“Are you lying?" She asks.

"Would anyone go this far to lie?" He counters.

"Good point," she admits, getting up. He still towers over her with a clear physical advantage. The little creature before him surveys him curiously and for a split second, Loki feels exposed. He has little time to dwell on it though, as his legs suddenly crumple beneath him and his head whirls, and he falls onto her. With all of the little strength he has, he pulls his swirling head up into consciousness to view several flickering images of the same child before him, its’ irritating, unintelligible voice echoing in his ears. He forces himself to focus, now face to face with the girl, and stares at her, as she stares back. In the moonlight, he notices her blue-green eyes, doe-like in their terror, are rimmed by a mask of swarming freckles that spread across the rest of her pale face, framed by red hair cascading over her shoulders.

With a sudden, panicked squeak, she drops him. He plummets to the ground like driftwood, with the wind blown from his lungs and his pain amplified beyond comprehension.

"What was that for?" He hisses, trying to wrench himself back onto his feet.

"Sorry!" She squeaks, hastily helping back onto his feet, then steps away from him slightly, watching him. "How far can you walk?"

"No matter what you think, I will go nowhere with you." He asserts, his voice growing weaker.

"Alright. _Tror du, at du vil overleve sådan? Tror du, at du vil forstå noget som helst? Kan du forstå mig_?"

"Stop talking, you make my head hurt!" He barks, expecting her to cower again. She instead looks him in the eye, unwavering.

"Did you understand me?"

"Of course not!"

"Precisely," she gloats. It dawns on him that he might just have been bested. The idea begins to burrow under his skin and itch like a rash, and in his mind, a nagging voice forges new doubt: _you will not survive much longer as you are_. Unfortunately, the voice is right – he is completely lost and alone, and that knowledge twists him into an uneasy submission.

"Come on," she says, "I'm going to help you. Do you need a hand?"

"No.” He snaps, “Do you know what you are doing?"

“Just follow me." She walks ahead and he reluctantly limps after her until she picks up her bike.

"What is that contraption?"

"It's my bike," she explains. "You never seen one before?"

"Not in so primitive a form. But two will not fit on there," he notes.

"No, you sit and I walk beside, and once I get home, I can help you better."

"And why would I want your help?"

"You want to survive."

Without another word, he gets on the bike and they walk/ride, in silence, through flat fields and back into the embrace of the town, under the steady gaze of orange streetlights. One glance at peaceful, boring suburbia, and he resents how insignificant it feels.

"This is my place." She says finally, walking up to a house no different than the one next to it. He stands, letting the bike clatter onto the pavement. She opens the door and leads him inside, turning on lights and throwing off shoes and coats as she leads him into what appears to be the biggest room and he, exhausted, collapses onto something soft, which turns out to be the sofa beneath him. As she leaves him for a second, he spots her slipping her rings into her pockets and pushing up her sleeves, along with the bracelets that adorn her wrists. Laying his head back, he blanks out before she reappears; turning the light on, before sitting on the floor in front of him with a first aid kit open between them. In the bright light, he can see all of her. He notices how, with her sleeves pulled up, her freckles extend all the way down her arms, to the backs of her hands; how many bracelets she wears (three on each wrists, with a watch on the left); how her stomach rolls when sat and, as her collar slips, the straps of her underwear dig into her shoulder; he clocks the slew of gold and silver chains diving beneath her neckline, ears pierced in three places on each ear, chipped navy-blue nail varnish, smudged make-up, scuffed palms, dirt on her jeans; if he tilts his head, he can see down her shirt-

“Sit up.” She commands. He glances at her lips: thin and a rosy pink, with two freckles perched atop her Cupid’s bow and a small bone-white scar running between them.

“I can’t," he groans.

“Then look behind me, and stay still, because this _will_ hurt." She instructs, holding his chin in one hand and a wet cloth in the other. As soon as the cloth touches his face, a cold, sharp sting bolts through his skin, and he jerks back.

"What _is_ that?"

"Antiseptic," she explains. “It stings, which is why I told you to stay still.”

"If you insist," he grumbles.

"Does it bother you, to have a girl tell you what to do?"

"Your gender is irrelevant,” he dismisses. But one thing perplexes him. “If you’re a girl, why is your name ‘son of Christen’?”

“Christensen’s just my surname,” she explains. “Other than in Iceland, no-one names their child like that anymore. If they did, I’d be Ida Nielsdatter.”

He asks no more questions and allows her to clean or bandage a wound. When she demands it, he peels away his shirt and reveals yet more injuries – ruby red scrapes decorate his skin like a sash, clashing against a uniform of bruises, and old scars curve around new ones wherever there is skin left to stick to his bones. When she asks again, this time for him to pull up his trousers, they discover more yet again. Like remembering old friends, he recalls the origins of each one and how, on the last day, they’d left him to settle. The blood had finally dried. It had felt like freedom. He goes back to watching her, her skin having mutated to a sickly pallor. She goes ahead and, as she does, it strikes him as to how demanding she is. Looking at her, he would never imagine such a quality in one presumably so young.

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“I thought as much.” He glances away, looking out of a bigger window to his right, as she treats him, all the while silent, the cloth in her hands smoothing over various wounds and then dressing each one with care and caution, as if she fears failing him.

"Should be enough for now.” She looks from him to her watch, "… you need to sleep."

"Why?"

"Because rest helps you get better,” she yawns, “ _og jeg er_ … tired."

"You trust me enough to leave me alone?” He asks, “You trust I will not do anything?"

"I don't think you can." With that, she stands. He looks her up and down, noticing that, although no more than himself, she is quite tall, and strong-looking; hardly a skinny brat in any way. She could be considered attractive, but he refuses to act upon it. Then she leaves.


	4. Chapter 4

_But through the darkness, hands grab at him, pulling in further into giving in and whatever fight there may have been, whatever resistance remained that had not be stolen by the burgeoning hatred in his heart - it is gone now. The darkness swallows him up and pulls him under into unbearable, burning pain, stealing the tattered remnants of his soul, leaving him with only his own screams._

Loki wakes suddenly in a cold sweat, heart pounding. He is no stranger to the occasional nightmare - monsters have haunted his sleep since childhood but in recent times they have grown more potent, more haunting and more terrifying – less like dreams and more like life itself. As his head clears, he becomes aware of the unfamiliar feeling of soft, warm fabric against his cheek and as he rises to sit upright, a baby blue blanket slips from his shoulders and into his lap. A little confused, he then looks to where his head was and sees a white pillow, disturbed by his erratic sleep. Running the fabric through his hands, he recalls the girl, dragging him back under the pretext of being helped.

Looking around the room, dim-lit in early morning, he sees it laid out so that two rooms are crushed into each other, with a table and chairs marking out a border of sorts. From ceiling to floor across three walls, shelves sit above a window, above worktops that cover drawers and cupboards, none of which seems to fit together. On the furthermost left wall, in the furthest corner, a door breaks their pattern.

He wanders over and begins to rummage through the drawers, digging through utensils, until he opens one full of knives. Choosing one - the thinnest and most dagger-like - he tucks it into the underside of his wrist, careful to hold the edge parallel to his veins. Then he turns, and notices something: the door is slightly ajar.

Walking through, he then meanders along the narrow corridor, noticing a shelf beside him, on which lies some device and a picture frame aside it, with a bright pink note stuck to it. He takes the notes, reads it over – names, followed by numbers; _Far, Hotel, Mormor, Frk. Yılmaz, Freja, Stens, Hr. Torstensen_ – before coming face to face with the figure in the frame: a very happy little red-headed girl, missing three fang-like ‘teeth’, with freckles, pigtails and a repulsive, overzealous grin. Her younger counterpart, captured for the sake of posterity. His attention wavers to three other pictures on the wall. The first is of a chubby toddler, presumably the same girl, being held up by an older brother, who looks up to the camera, grinning like an idiot as he helps his little sister to walk. The next is just the boy, older there and astonishingly alike his sister. The final image, positioned slightly above the others, is newer and lacks the sheen of dust that the two share. A group that centres around two men, one dark-haired, serious and slim and the other taller, stockier, with short blonde hair, each in matching silvery pale-grey suits. On the blonde’s left are two indistinguishable twin girls, in identical dark-blue dresses, branching away from their father with their arms hooked around each other. Stood beside the dark-haired man is an older redheaded woman, connected to the brother - their son - whose free arm encompasses Ida, on the edge. In a long, flowing dress, that resembles the other two, with her hair gracefully held up, he hardly recognises her. Her eyes shine, brimming with happiness, and despite it being just an image, her joy still feels real, even to him. She looks beautiful, but that is the very point. Nothing particularly special or interesting about it. The seven smile together, cosied up to one another, and fit like broken pottery pieces to form something near-perfect.

A family.

Jealousy strums at his heartstrings, but he soon stifles it and continues to explore.

He pokes his head into an empty bedroom, bathed in the moonlight flowing in from a window parallel to him. A neatly-made bed lies in the centre of the room, upon which pillows sit in predetermined places. Above the bed is a shelf, lined with memories and small souvenirs arranged carefully around two photo frames both placed at exact angles in the centre. Not a single thing could be out of place. Passing that over, he then discovers a pitch-black bathroom, before reaching a room at the end of the corridor.

Assuming it’s hers, he spins the knife and straightens the handle so as to hold it, and use it, as a weapon. It might be fun to scare her, hear her scream, and to warn her of her foolishness. Her own fault, leaving herself so open to attack. Expecting the door to be unlocked, he pushes against it. It doesn't move. After a few more tries, it’s still locked tight. Remembering a simple but useful trick, which unlocks all the doors of the universe, he tests just that. After trying it, again and again, nothing changes.

Then the truth hits. He is powerless. A stormy sea of anger surges inside of him, deep, unrelenting, ready to tear him open, break him, bring him to his knees - not only is he banished to Midgard, the realm he so strongly loathes, and not only is he subject to the will of its' people but just when he thinks that Odin might have left him something, he finds it taken. Then the darkest secrets, long since buried, begin to surface. They invade his mind, forcing him to once again believe that he will never belong - making him weak.

_Why should he have left me anything?_


	5. Chapter 5

A persistent, ugly cacophony of ringing and banging awakens him.

" _Hej Ida, luk op!_ "

 _Oh joy, there are more of them!_ He jumps to his feet and limps to the door, nearly wrenching it off its' hinges as he opens it, and demands:

"What do you want?"

The visitor – a tall, overweight girl, her skin a muted shade of reddened bronze, with a short crop of messily-spiked, pastel-pink hair, and thin, dark eyes – flinches back, her fists rising ever so slightly. She looks him over, lowering her fists a little, and explains, "I came to visit my friend."

Her voice is deep, cold and wary, completed by a thick accent. She steps closer, “Where is she? Who the hell are you?”

Before he can speak, a voice from the end of the corridor calls out, “One second!” and Ida appears, moments later, to bridge the gap between them.

"Loki, this is my friend Tove. _Tove, det her er Loke, guden_."

“ _Denne er en gas, rigtige?”_

_“Det ønsker jeg. Kom, jeg vil forklare alt.”_

Tove struts in, slamming the door behind her, and begins to pester Ida as the two walk into the living room and right past him. He trails after them and sits back down, all the while plagued by niggling little details such as not being able to understand them. Even though this disparity is rooted in petty cultural differences, he has never known any discrepancy until now. But it begins to dawn on him, that the privilege of the All-speak has been taken from him, along with everything else. Some of his earlier resentment resurfaces but he ignores it, drifting back to sleep, as Tove demands in a hurried whisper, “Where did you even find him?”

"I found him, last night, in the middle of a field. There was this big storm thing, it was like the northern lights but then it wasn't, and when it cleared, I found him.”

Tove slumps into one of the chairs at the dining table and sighs deeply.

“He was really hurt when I found him! And he was dressed like that and it was freezing, and his lips were sewn up! I couldn't have left him there, regardless of who he was!"

"At least you did _something_ and something big too… we need Sofie."

"Please tell me you saw that last night," Sofie bursts, wide grin keen, as Ida opens the door. Her rucksack hangs from her shoulder. She walks inside, adding, "You _have_ to have seen it; it's all over the TV. The area’s been cordoned off and there’s police and like, a special unit already down there and apparently this astrophysicist is already there and while I was coming here I spotted a load of trucks headed north from here – like, right up this street, going to and from some place that I couldn’t see because it was a couple of kilometres away – and I was going to see when you called. Why'd you call me anyway?"

"It's related to the storm last night."

“Really?” Sofie steps into the living room, “ _Fandt du noget - hvem er han?_ ”

Now awake, Loki hears the new voice and looks over and discovers that its owner is the short and yet lanky girl stood beside Ida, with a small cloud of dark curls, golden brown skin, razor-sharp masculine features, big glasses and large, hazel eyes, full of curiosity as they study him.

" _Han hedder Loke_."

" ** _Loke_** _?"_ She echoes, alarmed. In comparison to the others, her voice sounds foreign.

"What are you talking about?"

“This is Sofie, my other friend.” The girl sits beside the other, who smiles at her.

“Why does she recognise me?”

“One second." Ida disappears then returns seconds later, an old heavy book in her arms. She sits in front of him, opens the book and presents him with the image of a red-headed moustachioed man, "That's you."

"He looks nothing like me, he has a moustache."

"That's how people round here used to think you looked like. Asgard was once their religion, and now its part of our history. Nowadays, no one _believes_ but they know. You're like… a story."

_Because I am the monster parents tell their children about at night?_

"What do the stories say?"

"It's not important," she shuts the book, "It’s kids' stories, but… why are you on Earth?"

"I doubt you'd understand if I told you."

“I'm not as dumb as I look."

"You could have fooled me."

Unfazed, she ignores him. "You can't be here, and you don't want to be, so how about we make a deal?"

"Of what sort?"

"I help you get out of here and you give me answers, and nothing else.”

He smirks, realising that fate has granted him a complete idiot, who believes that her simple negotiation will actually gain her something.

“And why would I?"

"Because some people around here know you as _Lokke lejemand_ , the playing man, and this is just a game. So play. What’s the worst that could happen?"

After much thought, he concedes, "You make a good case."

"Shake on it?" She offers her hand to him.

He shakes it, adding, “You know, I would never do the same for you.”

In the corner of his eye, he notices the other two exchanging worried looks, and a foreboding half-smile teases the corner of his mouth. "Were I in your shoes, I would have left you to die.”

“I know,” she answers casually, “but I don’t do it for that. So, what did you do to get you sent here?”

“Why do you assume that the fault is mine?”

“I’ve read this book cover to cover, and whatever’s wrong is usually your fault. What did you do?”

“I tried to take over Midgard with an alien army, and was defeated. Now what?”

"You're still beat up and look like a hobo, so that needs fixing."

"Is that not superficial?"

"Just follow me," she mutters, getting to her feet. He drags himself up and follows her. Part skeptical, part wary and part bored, he pulls his heavy legs, caked in dirt and poorly covered, along. She opens a door to a cramped white room on her left, so well-lit it’s blinding. To his left a bath, with a shower-head suspended above it, on his right a toilet and sandwiched in between the two is a sink with a mirror hung above. For the first time in an age he sees his reflection in an unforgiving light: haggard scars of sleeplessness dig trenches under his eyes; his sallow skin sticks to his bones, painted blue, purple and sickly yellow by bruises, and red and brown with blood splattered across his front; _pathetic_. She turns on the shower and he begins to undress as she leaves, going back to sit at the table with her friends. Tove is curved over Sofie’s shoulder, observant as Sofie types with shaky hands. Peeking over them, Ida notices the screen, black and riddled with reams of complex coding, which bathes them in an eerie green light. "What are you doing?"

"She's ignoring you," Tove explains, "because she thinks what you just did is insane."

"But it might work."

"No it won't." Sofie interrupts, not looking up, "Ida, you’re a chess piece to him and he doesn't care if the other side takes you. You shouldn't trust him."

"Who said I trusted him?"

“Hang on, let me stop you there: you’re trying to trick the God of Lies into telling you the truth? You have no idea what you're doing, do you?"

“I’m not tricking him, I’m helping him. But if he thinks he can ask or do what he wants then he should think again. I'm not his fool."

"Yeah, that makes it all so much better." Suddenly, a message on the screen flashes **DOWNLOAD COMPLETE**. Sofie hits Enter and returns the screen back to normal. "When you said Loki, I remembered something: he's also a character in the Marvel comics, which reminded me of S.H.I.E.L.D – the CIA of the Marvel universe – and if he’s here and those trucks are too, then they must be related to S.H.I.E.L.D. I was able to access the mainframe of their computers and got to all this information about him, which I have right about…" she clicks on a window and a file labelled _Downloads_ pops up, "here. But, even with this, I know that what he said fits with the plot of _The Avengers_ , because in _Avengers_ , he tries to take over the planet with an alien army. He knows nothing about the movies, which proves he’s telling the truth and means that we’re dealing with someone a lot worse than mythology Loki. This Loki is dangerous, kills innocent people and doesn’t care. He’s a monster."

“Don’t worry about that right now," Ida reassures her flippantly, shrugging. "We have the advantage. But, to keep it this way, we shouldn’t give him a reason to do anything irrational.”

“People like that never need a reason.” Sofie buries her head in her hands, "Oh God, you’re going to get us killed."

"That's the opposite of what I'm trying to do!"

"Yeah, trying, but what happens if you fail?"

“I won’t.”

“What are you lot arguing about?” Loki asks as he strides in, dripping wet and completely naked. Sofie and Tove glance up then look away, while Ida asks, "Why didn't you just get a towel?"

"I was meant to use one of those things?"

"Yeah, I mean… just cover up."

"I see not why it should bother you."

"Wait here."

She walks over to a cupboard and starts to rummage through it. As he watches her, he notices her turn her head, and a blush lights up her freckled cheeks before she looks away again. After a second, she presents him with clothing. "My brother's about your size so these should fit. You can change in his room. It's the furthest one on your left."

He takes them and leaves, as she sits back down with them.

“Ida, I think you should accept something,” Tove tells her.

“What?”

“Your type is tall, dark, skinny, and off-putting,” she explains, grinning. “Literally everyone you’ve dated fits that description: Søren, Elin, Jonas, Tea… Klara was blonde, but still a bitch.”

“I liked her,” Sofie mumbles.

“Well, great,” Ida says, “but not the way it’ll ever be, so drop it.”

“Bullshit.” Tove relaxes in her chair, with a gloating smirk, as Loki walks back in.

"How do I look?” He asks. Now, shoulders-to-toe in black, he would resemble something close to normal, were it not for an air of god-like superiority.

“Like you’re going to rob a bank?” Tove jokes.

“Decent.” Ida corrects, “Are you hungry?”

He nods, sitting with the others, and she begins to delve through the cupboards. Out of the corner of his eye, he instantly notices the reaction of the other two - particularly Sofie, who shrinks back into her chair, sort-of leaning on Tove for support, and all the while keeps her eyes trained on him as if she expects him to pounce at any moment. Tove places a protective hand on her shoulder, which she then grasps, and he smiles to himself, appreciating their fear.

“ _Jeg skal af sted_ ,” Sofie blurts, words rushing out of her mouth and crashing into each other, as she stands and throws her bag over her shoulder, cradling the open laptop in her arms. Tove stands too.

“ _Hjem_?” Ida asks, concern edging into her voice.

“ _Nej._ _Er din døren ulåst_?”

Ida nods and they leave, and then she sets a plate down in front of him, “Sorry it’s just leftovers.”

He picks at it with his fork, “What exactly is it?”

“Lasagne… I think.”

“You think?” He echoes, disgusted. She sits parallel to him, hand gripping a glass of water. Her gaze skates past his ear, instead of meeting his own.

“Better bad food than no food.”

“Hmph,” he grumbles, taking a bite and forcing it down his throat. Her free hand, despite being pressed against the table top, trembles. Were it not for that, he might have been fooled into believing she was comfortable around him. But of course, no child could have been so “brave” without a considerable amount of acting or naivety or arrogance – all three of which she seems to have bucket loads. But, as long as she's there, he's blocked.

“Are you alone here?”

“Whoa, I'm the one asking the questions, not you.”

“Permit me,” he begins, making every attempt to remain civil, “to amend our deal.”

“To what?”

“A question for a question.”

“Alright.”

“So, I ask again: are you alone here?”

“Nope. I’ve got those two, and now you.”

“But what of your family or parents?”

“‘A question for a question’ means you ask just one.”

“All I need is a few, easy questions; nothing that might be too taxing for you.”

“Fine, but only a few – useful ones as well.”

“Where are your parents?”

“My mum is in Japan, on business, and my dad lives in Aarhus, with his new husband,” she answers, without even a hint of hatred for the man who left her; nothing worth exploiting. _Pity_.

“She left you alone, and you’re not… angered by this, in any way?”

“The emphasis is on _useful_.”

“Have you no-one else, who might care for you?”

“Bad question," she dismisses. "You could do better.”

He can feel the challenge in her words, as if she dares him to ‘do better’. And with her alone, gullible and proud, doing better will be all too easy. Even if she could be considered smart and even if she knows his game, she is but a mere, scared pawn in a much bigger game, one he will win.


	6. Chapter 6

Late that afternoon, with the night already drawing in, Ida resolves to change something.

“Are you tired?” She asks, focusing on the shadows growing against the window behind Loki’s head. He lazily casts his gaze to her and notices something: with such shaky hands and flickering eyes, she seems to buzz, like a bee’s wings, and he’s compelled to conclude that _she wants rid of you_.

“Yes. I suppose I shall have to sleep there again?” He nods over to the sofa but she objects.

“No, you can have my mum’s room,” she answers, “Just follow me.”

He does, as she leads him to the room, opening the door for him. Loki sits on the bed, making himself comfortable, then stares at her. Though unnerving, his eyes are beautiful. The rest of him, despite not being physically unattractive, is unfortunate. Rotten minds are no good for anyone. She notices him observing her every move, and feels as if she’s on show, as if everything hangs on her next word.

Therefore, she swiftly bids goodnight and, in the same breath, leaves, sighing in relief as she closes the door behind her.

 _Of course he’d do that. All the stories say so_.

Over a couple of hours, she’d just about managed to stave off his inquisition. Though all the while, a fear prickled in her skin.

Opening her bedroom door, she finds Tove sprawled face-up on her bed, top of her head on Sofie’s shoulder and her legs against the wall. Sofie sits cross-legged on the floor, her back against the side of Ida’s bed, laptop in her lap, and her brow furrowed as she scrolls, with the screen reflected in her glasses.

“Now what?” Ida asks. Both look up at her and Sofie smirks.

“Tove, if you please.”

Tove rolls off the bed and onto her feet, strolls over to Ida’s window, and draws the curtains to present the view: sprawling fields stretching into the blue night as always. Squinting, Ida notices an unfamiliar white glow just beyond the horizon, like a setting sun.

“What’s that?”

“That is S.H.I.E.L.D and they’re looking for him. They’re also an international organisation with a lot of firepower on its’ side, so we’re caught between two evils: him and them.”

“If you had to choose between the two, who would you go to?”

“Them.”

“So, we focus on Loki.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“What did you find?”

Sofie rolls her eyes, sighing, “Marvel is a front. S.H.I.E.L.D even calls it ‘Project Marvel’. It started as a way of keeping the public calm, by making it seem too impossible to be true, but they didn’t think it’d be popular. Parts of the movies – Dr Erksine's Super Serum, the Iron Man suit, Dr Banner's gamma theory and subsequent disappearance, the Foster theory, the invasion of New York, and Extremis – have all happened in real life. However, that only concerns certain aspects, like S.H.I.E.L.D and the characters. But it _is_ early days – that world could be much bigger than it seems.”

“What do we need to know?”

“Only up to The Avengers,” she explains. “I couldn’t find anything to do with Thor 2, but I did find a lot of CCTV footage that matches up with _Avengers_.”

Both Tove and Ida sit either side of Sofie as a video starts. CCTV keeps a diligent watch as scientists ferry in and out of the room, some prodding at the device in shot. Its centre glows an eerie shade of light blue.

“What’s that?” Tove asks.

“The Tesseract: an alien source of unlimited sustainable energy with the potential energy to wipe out the entire planet. Oh, and also a portal to the other side of space. Project Pegasus is trying to tap into it, for which they need Dr Erik Selvig,” she points to a man at a desk. “He’s an astrophysicist. He worked on the Foster Theory and wrote the notes on the Tesseract.”

On screen, the Tesseract sparks and then blasts a massive horizontal column of light across the room, from which a portal, made of billowing blue shadows, spawns. With a burst of light the column collapses and, as the dust clears, a dark figure rises from his knees, brandishing a spear, as armed gunmen approach. After mere moments, Loki uses the spear to obliterate S.H.I.E.L.D’s equipment and dispatches the gunmen as if they were nothing. In the aftermath, an agent runs up to Loki, his gun already in hand, but Loki seizes the man’s gun hand and taps the centre of his chest with the sceptre, directly over the heart, causing the agent to become docile and put away his gun.

“Holy shit.” Tove murmurs. “What did he do?”

With an exasperated sigh, Sofie explains, “That sceptre gives the wielder power over his victim.”

“‘ _Jeg er Loke, fra Asgård_ ’-”

“Wait, I can understand that!” Tove gasps, “Why can I understand that?”

“It’s the All-speak. You hear your first language, so an English speaker will hear English. He’s also supposed to understand everything-”

“Then why do we have to speak English?”

“It’s been taken from him,” Ida interrupts. “You saw him today. He couldn’t do anything he normally would. If he’s had that taken from him, making him human, it would make sense to take everything else.”

“‘ _I come with glad tidings, of a world made free_.’”

“‘ _Free from what?_ ’”

“‘ _Freedom_.’” They laugh at the sheer ridiculousness, “‘ _Freedom is life’s great lie. Once you accept that in your heart_ ,’” With that, Loki possesses Selvig, “‘ _you will know peace’_.”

Sofie closes the window, “After this, the portal collapses on its’ self and destroys the base, and he goes off their radar but turns up again in Stuttgart. I cut it to the parts we need.”

She stops as Loki towers above a terrified crowd on its’ knees.

“‘ _Is not this simpler? Is this not your natural state? It’s the unspoken truth of humanity that you crave subjugation. The bright lure of freedom diminishes your life’s joy in a mad scramble for power, for identity. You were made to be ruled. In the end, you will always kneel_.’”

“Anyone else want to punch him in the face?” Tove jokes, as an old man on screen stands.

“‘ _Not to men like you_.’”

“‘ _There are no men like me_.’”

“‘ _There are always men like you_.’”

“‘ _Look to your elder people.’”_ Loki begins to aim his spear at the man, _“’Let him be an example_.’”

Sofie stops the video and Tove asks, “Does he kill him?”

“No, Captain America steps in and fights Loki instead. Then Loki allows himself to get captured and taken back to their base.” She switches clips to one of Loki in a circular glass cage, suspended above some sort of ejector shoot, being interrogated by a red-haired woman.

“Who’s she?”

“Natasha Romanoff, aka Black Widow. She’s a spy, who works for S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“‘ _Your world in the balance and you bargain for one man?_ ’”

“‘ _Regimes fall everyday. I tend not to weep over that, I’m Russian… or was_.’”

“‘ _And what are you now?_ ’”

“‘ _It's really not that complicated. I've got red in my ledger, I'd like to wipe it out_.’”

“‘ _Can you? Can you wipe out that much red? Drejkov's daughter, Sao Paulo, the hospital fire?... Barton told me everything. Your ledger is dripping, it's **gushing** red, and you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything? This is the basest sentimentality. This is a child at prayer... PATHETIC! You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers. You pretend to be separate, to have your own code, something that makes up for the horrors. But they are a part of you, and they will never go away!_’” He slams his fist against the glass and all three girls inch closer to each other, “‘ _I won't touch Barton. Not until I make him kill you. Slowly, intimately’_ -”

“Pause it.” Ida demands.

“-‘ _In every way he knows you fear. And then he'll wake just long enough to see his good work, and when he screams, I'll split his skull! This is my bargain, you mewling quim_!’”

“After that he breaks out and starts a fight. This, I think, is right in the middle of things.” Sofie clicks play and on screen, Thor runs in, hoping to stop Loki, only to end up encaged as Loki strolls out and over to the control panel.

“‘ _The humans think us immortal_ ’,” he gloats, “‘ _Shall we test that?_ ’”

A sudden smack calls Loki’s attention as his henchman plummets to the ground and a man stands over him, pointing a huge gun at Loki.

“‘ _Move away please_.’” Loki backs away, “‘ _You like this? We started working on the prototype after you sent the Destroyer. Even I don’t know what it does.  Want to find out?_ ’”

Before he can shoot, Loki appears behind him and stabs him through his shoulder, piercing the man’s heart. Tove hides her face in Sofie’s shoulder, Ida turns sheet-white and Sofie rushes for the pause button, stopping just as Coulson falls to the floor.

"He won't strike unless it's convenient for him." Sofie tells them, "Soon there'll be something-"

“Then how do I get him out?” Ida asks.

Sofie deliberates, before admitting, "Ida, we can't. The bridge is literally broken and the realms are gone."

"Then how did he get here?" Tove reasons, "Maybe there’s more than one way."

"About which no scientist so far, dead or alive and in any field, knows anything. Furthermore, there could be numerous ways of travelling between worlds. What could we do?"

"Look for one,” Tove dares. “Just because they can't do it doesn't mean we can't.”

“Do you have any idea how serious this is? You know what might happen if we can’t find anything. You’ve seen what he can do.”

“If you hate this so much, why did you hack into S.H.I.E.L.D in the first place?” Tove asks. When Sofie can’t answer, she continues, “Because you want this, no matter how serious this’ll be, and you can’t deny it.”

“Ugh, I’m going home.” Sofie slams her laptop closed. Shoving it in her bag, she leaps to her feet, with the bag swinging over her shoulder, and storms towards the door.

“Hey,” Tove whines, as Sofie’s hand brushes the handle. She turns around, “Goodbye kiss?”

“Don’t upset the third wheel.”

Ida slumps into bed, moulds the sheets around her, and shuts them out.


	7. Chapter 7

As soon as Ida wakes, cold sunlight blinds for a moment, and she tries her best to adjust. She glances over to her alarm clock, reading 12:32, and then sits up, and draws her legs up so as not to wake Tove, snoring and spread-eagled on the floor, having stayed the night. Rolling off the bed on the other side, she walks over to her cupboard and begins to pick out her clothes. Behind her, Tove yawns.

“Sof here yet?”

“Nope,” Ida answers. “You showering first?”

“You go ahead,” Tove offers. Ida does, taking her clothes into the bathroom with her. Walking through the silent corridor, she spots no sign of Loki. After a quick shower, she gets dressed, carefully checking every detail of her outfit, and then walks into the kitchen for breakfast. As she pours herself some apple juice, the shower starts to run again.

Suddenly, a hand knots into her hair, yanking her head back, and his hard body slams hers against the cabinets. Juice spills down her front. As cold steel presses into her throat, her pulse screams in her veins and her thoughts yell: _I was wrong. I was so wrong._

“Did you think you were safe in your own home?” Loki taunts in a whisper.

“What do you want?”

“Money - enough for transport, sustenance, and shelter - and you will tell me the name of this country’s political capital. Only then might I let you live.”

“Copenhagen,” she breathes. “The capital is Copenhagen. In Danish, it’s spelt K-Ø, with a diagonal dash through-B-E-N-H-A-V-N. If you’re going, you’ll need to know that.”

She takes a deep breath, straining through his hold as the knife tickles her neck, and feels the sting of fresh tears at her eyes, “Please, don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything.”

A trail of blood trickles over her collar, soaking into her jumper. She waits.

“Then do as I command,” he advises. The blade slackens and his hand untangles itself from her hair as he inches back, his hand falling away to his side. She leans against the worktop, hyperventilating, and wipes her eyes with the backs of her shaking hands. One hand then rushes to her throat, covering the shallow cut in an attempt to stem the bleeding. After a moment, the knife returns, now at her back. Its’ tip teases the space directly above her heart.

“Hurry up,” he complains.

“The money’s in a drawer,” she tells him. “In the corridor.”

She hurries through, with him following and the knife trained onto her back, unlocks the drawer with a spare key, kept under the phone, and rummages around. She turns to face him with a thick wad of notes in her hand.

“No, turn around,” he commands.

“But this way, you’ll know I’m not lying,” she reasons, sounding desperate. He nods, permitting her to stay, and she begins to count out the notes between hands that still tremble – 1000, 2000, 3000, 4000 – and he watches, as nameless figureheads waver before him. Her hand moves for the next, and in the second he takes to blink, she snatches a photo frame from the shelf and smashes it against his face. He stumbles back, dropping the knife, as blood pours down his cheek, and looks up at her. She drops the frame. Stepping forward, he then plummets to the ground. Ida waits for him to move, but he continues to lie before her feet, unconscious. Stood in the bedroom doorway is Tove, her hair still wet, holding Lukas’s old hockey stick as though it were a sword.

Her breath comes in quick, short pants, as she drops the stick and asks Ida, “You ok?”

Ida stands there, frozen, and fighting for breath, fighting for control.

Tove steps over Loki and takes Ida’s face in her hands, searching for injury, “Ida?”

“I’m fine,” she manages. At that precise moment, the door opens and Sofie steps in, jerking back when she kicks his feet.

“What happened?”

“He held a knife to my throat,” Ida explains, her voice monotone. Tove unwraps a plaster and presses it to Ida’s collarbone, then starts to scoop the mess into her cupped palms, before shoving it into the drawer. Finally, she picks up the knife.

“I told you so,” Sofie claims, sidling up to Ida’s left. “I really told you, and you even saw it, and yet-”

“Shut up,” she barks, finally looking up. “I don’t need it.”

“You’re checking his pulse.”

“No need,” Tove interrupts, from the right. “I don’t hit to kill. It’s disrespectful.”

Sofie grumbles, “What should we do then?”

“Wait until he comes round,” Ida decides.

“ _If_ he comes to-”

“I didn’t hit him that hard,” Tove says.

“Hard enough to concuss him.” She addresses Ida, “Hey, how do you deal with a concussed God?”

“In the living room,” Ida commands. With that, she walks through and the others follow. As she sits on one of the kitchen chairs, closest to the door, Sofie stands parallel, and Tove floats between them.

Sofie speaks first, and decides, “He has to go.”

“But where?” Ida argues.

“I don’t give a fuck, just kick him out!” She yells, “Ida, he held a knife to your throat, he would have killed you! It’s better if you get rid of him; kill him, if you had to!”

“Don’t,” Tove interjects, and Sofie scowls.

“Why not? It’s him or us!”

“And, if any of us do, he’ll have won. Sure, he’ll be dead, but we’ll have let him scare us into being cruel, and into being as weak as he thinks we are. He’ll have tricked us into losing our humanity.”

“What do you suggest then?”

“We wait-”

“For him to hurt us!”

“For the right time,” Tove continues calmly.

“Don’t you see what this is?” Sofie demands, “You know he’s dangerous-”

“I know you are too,” Tove reasons, “Should I kill you too? And Ida as well, should I hurt her? I could be dangerous, can’t I, so should I kill myself?”

“That’s not what I meant!” Sofie shouts. “Look, there is no way back for someone like him. There comes a point at which every broken person believes that there is no way back, that there is no such thing as hope, that nothing will change, and he’s so far beyond that.”

“And, if you give in, you slip closer to that point.”

Sofie grimaces, rolling her eyes, and hisses, “Just do the right thing for once.”

“I’ll go,” Ida volunteers. She stares at the floor.

“What?”

“I’ll take him with me,” she explains, “which keeps him away from you two.”

“You don’t have to martyr yourself-”

“I’m not,” she argues. “But you two are more important.”

“So is your life!”

“Yeah, and I’ll do something right with it, no matter what you say.”

Sofie slumps onto the sofa, crossing her arms over her chest, “Fine. Go kill yourself. See if I care.”

Her bottom lip trembles and her blinking is rapid, as she scratches her nose. Tove bites her lip, hands curling into fists, as her eyes flit between the two. Her teeth dig so deep into her skin that she draws blood. Then she relents, joins Sofie’s side, and knots their hands together. Sofie stares up at her. Her gaze moves to fall on Ida.

“You need to choose.” Sofie determines, “Us or him?”

“What?”

“Answer me, right now.” When she doesn’t, Sofie persists, “Him?”

“No!” Ida snaps, “If it were me or him, who would you choose?”

“You, always,” she replies.

“Then I’m choosing you,” Ida asserts. “But differently.”

Loki stumbles in, rubbing the back of his head. The moment he enters, Ida jumps to her feet. Her right arm shields the girls and the other rises slightly, ready to block him if needs be. But they don’t look it: weedy, lighting-bolt shaped tracks of smeared blood race down from just above his temple to along the edge of his cheekbone. A trace of glass shines in his forehead. When his hands fall to his sides, she spots blood seeping into the lines on his palm.

He leans against the doorway, studying them, and chuckles.

“They or I?”

“What?”

“If you had to, who would you choose?”

Her arms drop to her sides. She approaches and looks him in the eye.

"You need to listen to me now, and do what I say."

“Answer me.”

“Not until you do as I say.”

“Why should I?” He glares at her.

“You’ll find out.”

“I believe you’re obliged to answer.”

“I’m not ‘obliged’ to do anything.” Her hand reaches for his arm but, before she can grab him, he seizes her wrist. She wrenches her wrist from his grip and slaps him. “Don’t touch me!”

“Do you truly believe that your arrogance is worth the risk?” He threatens, edging towards her. Behind her, he catches sight of Tove, on her feet. “Toying with me is the last thing you should do. You know full well that you’re not safe.”

"Just follow me."

“I could kill you with one blow,” he teases. “It would be all too easy.”

"I don’t care!" She snaps. Her every word is lit with blazing fury. “Now you either follow me and we get out of this house or I’ll drag you out and leave you by the roadside, because I have had enough! Do you understand?"

"Perfectly."

"Good. Come on."

He obeys, stealing shoes and a coat as he follows her out of the door. _This could be interesting_.


	8. Chapter 8

As he follows her, in complete silence, he notices something: she seems to be stalling. She walks blindly, trying to find some safe direction, until she can think of something. _There must be a way of getting rid of her_. He looks around, searching for a place to run to or hide a body, and notices a few sporadic smatterings of naked trees huddled together, along roads that knit the fields together, but overall the land is flat. The sky is iron-grey and open wide. The horizon seems to be endless. It leaves him with the eerie feeling that there is nowhere to hide.

 _There must be something else_ , he thinks. There must be a way of unnerving her further, to the point that she cannot cope. Physically, it would not work. Although he has already attacked her, although she is much weaker than he is, and although she has her back to him, she has proven she can fend for herself. He looks ahead to her, with her head down, shoulders brought up, with both arms held straight at her sides, and her hands drawn into tight fists. Every so often, she takes a glance back at him. Their silence allows her to listen for his every movement. He follows her every step, so that they walk in time, and she meant for it. If he were to attack her, again, with all her strength placed in her torso and all her concentration on him, she could overpower him. Not easily, but it could be done.

But, whereas she might survive, she is even weaker mentally. No matter how she might pretend, he knows. _You got to her,_ he exults, and in the aftermath, he left fear, and rage, and all manner of feelings she will not express; a tempest, disguised as a raindrop. Thus, there _will_ be definitely something in the chaos of her head that he can pick on; something that, given the right words, will bend her will to what he wants and _will_ get rid of her.

“So, whom did you choose?”

“Them,” she answers, “but that choice involves you.”

“How so?”

She stops and turns to face him, and he halts just in front of her. As she speaks, she tries to keep her voice level and therefore give it the earnestness she requires. However, she still sounds as nervous as she feels, “I’ve seen what you can do. I know how you work. I know how much of a threat you are. However, I made a deal and I’m going to see it through, which means I have to give you some rules, and you will follow them.”

“Go on.”

“Stay away from them and don’t hurt them in any way. Follow that rule and we might get along.”

“Oh good, you’re trying to appeal to my humanity. I love it when people attempt that.” He taunts, “But, if you profess to ‘know’ my ways, you’d surely be aware that I do what I have to, not what you wish me to.”

“So now what?”

“Do I look like one whose intentions can be so easily and blatantly coaxed from me?”

“As far as I can tell, your ‘intentions’ are to get rid of me somehow, but if you do, what then? Where can you go if you don’t know where you are?”

“Maybe I’ll return to them?”

“Don’t you dare!” She bellows.

He grins, “What would you do to spare them?”

“I’d stop you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“What do you want? We keep fighting, but what for?”

“I want you to kneel.”

His words catch her out, filling her mind with dread, “N-no.”

“What must you think of me?” He mocks, feigning innocence, with a sardonic, belittling chuckle, “I would not venture so low. Kneel."

She does as he commands, bowing her head. Pleased, he continues, "You kneel so easily, almost as if what you fight for is worthless. Why were you even fighting? For yourself? For a couple of miscreants? But of course one so young, like yourself, would not know that caring for others is dangerous and only makes you vulnerable. You should thank me for ridding you of such a burden and enlightening you. In kneeling, you are forced to return to your natural servitude. Your truest nature is a self-centred battle for survival. I have lived long enough and seen enough to know that it is every man for himself. But in kneeling you regress to your natural state, forgetting the lust for power, the need for identity or the fight for others. In that respect, servitude is your salvation. It will be your peace and in turn, your freedom.”

A sudden surge of courage compels her to speak up. She stands.

“Servitude is salvation?” She retorts, disgusted, “Servitude is servitude, end of! And there is no “natural state”. _That_ is freedom, and fighting for that freedom protects it and offers peace. But that’s not the point. I don’t care about letting you speak, I just knew you would. You want me even more scared than I was, but I don’t care about what you want. I care about them. But I’ve just one thing to ask: why do you want to be feared?”

"I was once and should be a king,” he explains proudly, as he remembers the throne. “A king is respected and feared. Would you not fear your king?"

"I respect my _queen_ , but I don’t fear her. Fear isn’t respect, and from what I know of royalty… you're certainly not a king."

"I was!" He shouts.

"Not here!" She snaps. He recalls where he's heard that before– _Thor_. The memory infiltrates his mind and if he allowed it to, it would bring him to his knees. But he swallows it back and conjures all of his strength to remind himself who is. “There’s a time and a place for what you want to say-"

"And that time is now!” He yells, his resolve slipping, “My place, my time _is_ now!"

"And with what audience, _me_?" She laughs; a cold, joyless sound.

"Why offer me tomorrow then?" Regaining some calm, he argues, "Do you have a habit for making false promises? In fact, what is _this_ if nothing but a false promise? All of this – all of your plans and intentions – all of it is nothing but a game. You said so yourself.”

"No, it isn’t; it is so much more. You’re not playing a game anymore. Not with me, and certainly not with them."

"You brought them into this. You're just as guilty as I am."

"This isn't about me anymore! This is you! You're here on Earth because you know what you did! You know what you are! You're not a king or a god. You're a man, stuck here-”

"There is nothing that will change that!" He counters, furious and on the brink of tears, "Do you truly think you can tame the monster? You can't; no one can, and there is nothing anyone can do! I'm trapped here because you are right – I am guilty! I am a monster!"

As she takes it all in, petrified and holding her breath, it begins to snow. The small flakes mock him, dancing in the wind, as he teeters over the edge. After a long, tense pause, he gives up and sinks to his knees, crying despite his best efforts not to. When he breaks down, he reveals a Loki previously unknown. Before this moment, the Loki in front of her had a bully, feeding off the fear of others and enjoying it. But this is the Loki at the centre of everything, everything having brought him to his knees, with such unfamiliar emotional honesty that it terrifies her.

Perhaps the right thing to do would be cut off any sympathy for him. Villains don’t deserve sympathy. You hate them, or pity them for wanting destruction, but you don’t feel sorry for them.

However, anchored to the dirt like an island in the middle of the ocean, she already feels cut off herself. Only then does she notice her nails, digging into her palms, have drawn blood. When her fists unravel, blood trails after her fingertips. The muscles in her arms ache, having been tensed for so long. She sighs. Crouching in front of him, she puts a steady hand on his shoulder. He then bats it away.

“It's not too late."

"What difference would you make?"

"It’s not about me, it’s about you. You’ve done terrible things and terrible things have happened to you. Finding out you were adopted and losing everything you had hurt, but that’s no excuse for what you did. However,” she admits, “something has to change. That’s going to take time, which you've got now. I have to get back, but I’m not leaving without you. If you want, you can stay out here for a while and cry or talk to me. Then we’ll sort it out from there, maybe tomorrow or the rest of the week.”

“What would I have to do to convince you that I do not want to be helped?”

“Nothing. I made a deal, and I’m going to stick to it, so I’m staying.”

“Leave me alone.”

“No, not when you’re like this. But you can just forget I’m even here.”

When she next dares to speak, the sky has darkened and over in the distance, the town’s streetlights glow orange. She glances up to the stars.

“Are you going to be ok?”

He remains silent, glaring at her, and then grumbles, “Would you trust me again?"

“I didn’t trust you to start with.” She stands, “Are you ready to go?”

Loki gets to his feet, wipes his eyes and marches ahead with her at his heels.

“Not a word to anyone.” He hisses, “Is that understood?”

“I’ll have to say something-”

“The bare minimum, or else I swear that it will be the last thing you do.”

She nods, “Alright.”

They walk back in silence and, when they return, separate without a word. As soon as his door closes, Tove and Sofie emerge from the living room, and follow Ida to her bedroom.

“Why the fuck is he still here?” Sofie demands.

“I promised.”

“Every time you say that, I fear for my life.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, but I have to see this through.”

“No, you don’t! Giving up won’t kill you!”

“I know what I’m doing,” Ida insists.

Sofie meets Ida’s eyes, "You can’t control him.”

Ida groans, her head thrown back, as she falls onto the bed and murmurs, “You guys can go home, if you want.”

“No, I can’t,” Tove says. She sits on the bed, with her back against Ida’s knees, and takes Ida’s hand, her thumb tracing a figure of eight on the back. “Not now, not ever.”

Sofie strolls out of the room, slamming the door behind her, and Tove sighs.

“What happened?”

“I made him cry,” Ida yawns. Tove almost replies, but at that moment, Sofie kicks the door open, dragging in the spare mattress under one arm and carrying a pillow and blanket in the other, and then nudges the door closed behind her. Ida smiles to herself and then disappears under the sheets.


	9. Chapter 9

Like every morning, he jolts awake in terror, pulse thundering in his ears. The nightmare seems to be recurrent – always the same dark force dragging him back. _It was just a nightmare_ , he tells himself, as if nursing a petulant child. He throws the covers back and, with his elbows resting on his knees, sinks his head into his palms. Peeking out from between his fingers for a second, he notices the sunlight chasing the shadows in the room into the corner. Remembering where he is, his blood begins to boil – his hands curl up into fists, his jaw stiffens and he grapples weakly with the strong urge to break something.

After a short while, he decides against it and stands, aware of the stench of cold sweat. He walks along a deathly silent corridor to the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and then, bent over the side of the bathtub, staring at the silver knobs and taps, tries to remember how she turned this contraption on. Twisting the taps only begins to fill the bath. With one sharp pull of a lever resting between the taps, freezing water cascades, soaking him. The initial shock soon subsides and he undresses, showers quickly, shuts off the shower and gets out, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his waist.

When he walks into the living room, all three of them are already there. Ida and Sofie sit at the table, surrounded by books, paper and pens, both deep in thought and concentrated upon their work. Tove, on the other hand, bounces around on her feet in the centre of the room, clutching a top-heavy stick in both hands. Two black wires dangle from her ears as she propels the stick, spinning around loosely, and dices into the air as if facing an invisible opponent, focused entirely on the space in front of her. Any slim possibility of a ‘good mood’ that day disappears.

But nonetheless, he strolls over to find the clothes he needs, dresses, and then roots through the cupboard to take what he needs to make himself breakfast. In the process, it becomes obvious how far he has fallen. To think, he meant to rule this world. Now he burrows in this claustrophobic speck. Finally, he sits at the table, across from the girls. Sofie leans as far back as she can manage. Ida doesn’t move. He might as well not exist.

"I have something to ask," he begins.

“Okay,” she agrees, easing her words as if stepping onto thin ice.

"You said you know of royalty?"

"I know that a position of power is a responsibility, not a right," she answers. "One you have to earn. And when you serve the people, you're not important. They are. You have to serve them the best way, which might not the way you want to."

"Where did you learn that?"

"School. TV. Other people's mistakes. By the way, you'd never make a good king."

"So you've told me," he snarls, jaw clenched.

"You're too selfish. Not so much of a bad thing when you're on your own, but shitty for government."

"Are you quite finished?" She nods. "Good, because I've been meaning to say that I feel that you should know that the attempt on your life was nothing personal.”

“Of course not,” she deadpans. But then she asks, “Would you have done it?”

“Did you want me to?” He studies her expression - confident, inquisitive; hardly the type to want death.

“No, you answer first.”

“Had you proven tricky, yes. Had you not, no.” She nods, never breaking eye contact. Her cards remain close to her chest. “Now you answer.”

“Of course I didn’t,” she answers, top lip curling, as if insulted. “I like my life.”

_Of course you would._

“Although I must admit, there is something beautiful about your fear. Not the attempts to beg for mercy - their gracelessness cannot be helped - but the true fear, when you freeze, like a frightened doe.”

A rosy blush blossoms across her cheeks but their gazes remain locked. After a pause, a sardonic smirk rears its’ head.

“Try saying that one more time, but with meaning, and it might work.” She goes back to her work, before eventually asking. After a moment, she starts to dig through her bag.

“Here,” she tosses a book in front of him, “Amuse yourself.”

His eyes scan over the cover, “An atlas?”

“Find a place to go.” He obliges, but barely reads. Instead, he sifts through the pages lazily until they start to repeat themselves, at which point she asks:

“Why did you try to take over the Earth?”

“To have a kingdom all of my own, as was my birth right."

"Your 'birth right' was Jotunheim; why not there?"

"I could never be king to such monsters! Even if I wanted to be, I destroyed most of it."

"Why?"

"To prove I was the worthier son, and therefore the true heir. I was born to rule. You, on the other hand, and the rest of this world are no more than ants.”

"Ants bite. But… where’s the glory in being the ruler of an 'insignificant' world?"

“A kingdom is a kingdom.”

“No, that’s not it.” She squints, searching for something, “I think you did it to show off to your father.”

“My father is dead.”

“But, deep down in some pit of evil, is your heart and in there you still consider Odin your father, and you’d do anything to impress him.”

He laughs at her, “Can I not simply want my kingdom?”

“But it’s not just your motive. You care about someone up there. You want their attention, enough to… get yourself caught,” She realises, “so that you’ll return and then take over. But someone up there put a stop to that.”

"But of course: Odin sends me to the very realm that I attempted to tear to pieces, even though I have _two_ worlds threatening Asgard with war if I am not surrendered.”

“What if they find you here?"

"Neither world has any idea as to where I am. However, were they to find a way, there is little to stop them from taking me."

"What about Thor?"

"What about him?" He retorts, his voice gruff. In his mind he glimpses Thor, and tries his all to ignore the way his heart stirs.

"What if he were to stop them? He can and, if he had to, he would."

“In all of my months of imprisonment, he did not visit me once. He was absent at my 'trial' and he has made no effort to find me thus far.”

“But he’s your big brother," she argues, sounding years younger. “He’ll come back for you.”

“He can’t, unless it’s really important,” Sofie interrupts. “You broke the Bifrost and, unless the powers that be say so, no one is going anywhere. That also means, even if you want to go back, you don’t control that decision – they do. For you to go back there has to be some serious change, enough to fulfil some magical clause or something. It’s your basic transformation story: whiny boy becomes ‘man’, with the help of a guide. Enter: Ida.”

“WHAT?!” He and Ida chorus, shocked. Loki then slams his head against the table.

“I’m doomed.” He groans, “Doomed to languish upon Midgard for the rest of my days.”

“That’s the spirit!” Sofie laughs.

“I preferred you when you were silent.”

“And I preferred it when you weren’t here, but we can’t always get what we want. By the looks of things, you’ve never been told that.”

He ignores her. "Silvertongue turned to lead?"

His attention focuses on Tove, who still slices into her invisible foe. When she notices him staring, she stops and pulls the wires from her ears.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

"Kendo. A Japanese martial art. I have a grading tomorrow and I’d normally practise with my sword, but… meh, the stick’s good.”

“You fight?” His voice carries a very deliberate mocking edge. When she glares at him, he knows she heard.

“Yes, I do,” she retorts. “Want to see?”

Throwing the stick down, she adds, “I know three disciplines: kendo, karate, and taekwondo. The latter two use fists. They probably trained you as a kid so, whatever you can do, you’ll know combat basics. Let’s see how well.”

He stands and walks up to her, positioning himself parallel to her. She bows.

"It shows respect," she explains, as he stares at her. "Usually, both opponents would bow."

When she assumes fighting stance, he mirrors her. It saves him from having to remember.

She swings a fist to the left side of his head, but he blocks it with ease. His tight grip locks her wrist in place. She struggles against his hold, as he stares her down. Her foot slips aside his, but he twists his ankle behind it and nudges in, compromising her stance. Her other fist aims for his stomach, yet he catches it again and laughs at her.

But suddenly, Tove’s knee smashes into his stomach and, in the split second he is incapacitated, she trips him over her leg and onto his front, and then digs her right knee into his lower back. Her left shin lands across the back of his legs. She twists his arms around his back, wrists crushed between her hands, and her elbow forces his head down. But then, she stands above him, bows, and then asks, “Impressed?”

He sits up as she turns away and reaches down for the stick.

“It’s hardly lady-like, is it not?” He teases. She swings around, stopping the stick only millimetres from his cheekbone. He flinches.

“Remember this?”

The back of his head aches, “Can’t say I do.”

“Piss me off and I’ll remind you.”

“You know, your skills are impressive.” Her head inches around just enough to make menial eye contact. But that’s all he needs. “For a half-breed.”

Her grip on the handle tightens, “Excuse me?”

“Your genetics are clearly diluted; you look neither of this land nor of another, therefore you must be half-bred.”

Seconds later, her heel strikes his groin. He doubles over, as a dull, thudding radiates throughout his lower torso.

“Don’t ever call me that,” she spits, and then calmly adds, "I’m mixed race. My mum is a _kalaaleq_ , from Greenland.”

As he props himself up on his elbow, Sofie rushes in between them to close the gap, keeping her back to him. Chuckling despite the ache, he asks her, “And what are you for that matter? A foreigner, am I correct?” He savours his next point, smiling to himself. Mortals would care about something so petty. "Male or female?"

“It’s not important.”

“You’re a terrible liar. No one cares about you, do they?”

“About as much as they care about you.”

Her smug smirk sparks his anger and he impulsively jumps to his feet, reaching for her throat. She jerks back, safely out of his reach, as Ida appears between and holds him back, gripping his collar. She pulls him closer to her, eyes burning into his.

“Get out of this room, now.”

“Why should I?” He dares, waiting for some foolish argument, or for her to insist, as she would, it is somehow his fault.

“Because you need to think about what you’re doing,” she reasons, letting go. With that, he leaves. He slams the door for good measure.


	10. Chapter 10

A deafening shriek rips through silence as Ida sleeps. Startled, she leaps out of bed, only to find both Tove and Sofie asleep, oblivious to the noise. She races to her mum’s room and discovers a hysterical Loki thrashing about in a storm of sheets. Half-formed grunts and sobs crawl out of his mouth, yet all the while his eyes are screwed shut. He rolls onto his side, away from her.

“Loki, wake up,” she urges, approaching him cautiously. “It’s just a nightmare.”

He gradually wakes up, and notices her. His expression sours, “Get away from me.”

“Alright,” she shrinks back into the wall. He shoves the sheets away as he sits up, legs over the side of the bed, and buries his head in his hands, shoulders sinking. He seems to tremble.

“Are you… crying?”

“Do not say another word.”

“You don’t have to pretend. You can talk to me.”

“No.”

“Stop being so proud.”

“What do I have left to be proud of?” He snaps, looking up. “I have nothing left! The least you could do is to allow me some decency!”

“Demons aren’t decency.”

“Privacy is.”

“Not when it hurts you.”

“What should you care if I am hurt?”

Unsure of what to do or how to answer, she eventually says, “Follow me.”

“Those words never end well.”

“I want to show you something.” She disappears and, intrigued, he follows her through the house and out of the house. His feet brush over cold, wet grass as they walk around the back of the house and into the back garden. Then she lies on the ground and gazes up at the stars, crystal clear.

“What are you doing?”

“Stargazing,” Her teeth chatter and her breath forms feathery clouds mid-air, “I wanted to show you something that helped me when I was scared-”

“I was not scared.” He corrects, spitting out the last word, as he sits beside her.

“My brother first introduced me this when I was little, just something we’d do. Now I know more than him. But you’re just a beginner, so we’ll start with the easy ones.” She points out a patch of sky, and connects a couple of stars by drawing some disjointed lines between them, “Up there is Ursa Minor and Major, and then that is Sirius, and Rigel and Betelgeuse, which, with those three there, make up Orion, and over there is the constellation of Gemini, the twins, and you can see Castor and Pollux. And then over there is Andromeda, next to Perseus,” she traces the shape of two people next to each other in the sky, “Oh, if you squint really hard, you can see the Andromeda galaxy! Isn’t that cool?”

Her excited grin catches him off-guard, so much so that he forgets whatever doe-eyed, stunned “beauty” exists in her panic, for that smile is so full of life, and so much more beautiful. Whatever image he’d stored in his mind pales in comparison. She never smiled as if she meant it before. But then he remembers himself, “Why do they have such strange names?”

“Some, like Ursa Minor or ‘little bear’, are just Latin names for what they look like. But other names, like Castor and Pollux, come from Greek mythology. They were half-brothers; one was immortal and one wasn’t. When the mortal died, the immortal one asked the god Zeus to share his immortality so that they’d stay together, and they were made into Gemini. The Greeks believed that the gods honoured their heroes by making them into stars.”

“Oh, the things you people will believe.”

“Yeah, like eight-legged horses and massive sea-serpents and a giant wolf.”

“Ah, now that, as you can see, is real." He lies back, "And say what you will, but Sleipnir _is_ the fastest horse in all the realms. However, the stories are not entirely true to fact. Your ancestors took… artistic license.”

“So, are things like Ragnarøk and Sigyn real?” He rolls his eyes.

“Ragnarøk stems from every society’s belief that without them the world will no longer continue and therefore, each has its end-of-days story. But has the world ended? No. As for Sigyn…."

He looks up at her, mulling over whether or not he should trust her, and realises: Ida does bear some resemblance to Sigyn that, until then, had gone unnoticed. Both are red-headed but Sigyn was willowy where Ida is strong, and had skin as pure and white as fresh snow. Where Ida is coarse, arrogant and daring, Sigyn was kind, lady-like and refined. Even when she'd told him of her new betrothed, as he languished incarcerate, she was civil. Diplomatic. (He'd hated her for winning). And, although fair, she had eyes like black holes; the only time he'd ever admired such. Usually, he prefers blue eyes. Cold, glacial blue, like Sif’s or Thor's. Ones that he'd seen them enough to know by heart that once they'd looked at him warmly, and to remember how they'd turned on him.

He waits for hers to turn as well. If blue freezes over, what happens to jade when malice takes hold? (Does he want to know?) But she focuses at him, sincere and compassionate, and expects him to talk. It is only him, her - unlikely to use it against him - and the stars - empty, inanimate clusters of gas. No-one might ever know.

He closes his eyes and sighs, as if it hurts to admit, “Whosoever believed that I deserved someone, especially one like her, was even madder than I.”

"You really don’t think you’re worth the fight, do you?”

He doesn’t answer, concentrating only on the sky. But, no matter how much he pretends, she can see the truth. In such brief moments of vulnerability, he reveals himself, and surprises her again. And, despite all her doubts, her eyes linger on him, transfixed by the ghost of something that runs deeper than any previous attraction, that reminds her of her reason why.

“Well, you are.” She reaches for his hand and twines their fingers together. He inches away, but not completely. “But you _do_ need to sort yourself out. It won’t just be me fighting.”

His hand leaves hers, “Could you leave me be?”

“Just two more things," she says quickly, becoming serious. "1) Don't dare talk to my friends that way ever again, and 2) I am not yours to mess around with.”

She then goes inside, leaving him with the quiet darkness. Alone, the silence becomes a breeding ground for the troubling inkling that surrender is imminent; surrender with no indication of where to go, what to do, why to do anything…

"Heimdall, open the Bifrost."

The stars stare back at him. Clearly, he hasn’t humiliated himself enough. He breathes deeply, in and out, trying to concentrate on the cold permeating his bones. Yet her stubborn voice still rings in his ears. He should pity her for her naivety, but the words wheedle their way in and slowly begin to take root, as stubborn as her.


	11. Chapter 11

The first thing Loki hears is a door slamming. Then something jingles, followed by two heavy thuds and then light, quick footsteps. Concerned, he ventures out of the room and comes to face-to-face with a lanky red-haired young man, his thin face blank before it contorts with confusion. As the man steps forward, Loki notices his eyes, narrowed into pinpricks as they look him over; a familiar shade of blue-ish green.

“ _Hvem er De_?” He demands, “ _Hvordan kommer De ind? Hvad laver De her?... Ida_.”

He grips Loki’s shoulder and slams him into the wall, “ _Hvor er min søster_?”

"Lukas!" Ida snaps. Both men turn to notice her, bursting out of the bathroom still wet and half-dressed. Her legs are exposed, as freckled as the rest of her ( _are they everywhere_?), and he finds himself staring for longer than he should. With that, his gaze rushes up to her face. Ida stares her brother down. Even when annoyed, under-dressed and unprepared, she looks good.

Her wet hair is tied into a braid that slinks past her neck, over her shoulders, and ends at her chest. A few spare threads of hair streak across her brow. They then focus on each other, before she addresses her brother.

“ _Lukas, lad ham gå og jeg vil forklare alt.”_

Lukas lets Loki go, “ _Hvem er han_?”

“ _Han hedder Loke_.”

“ _Loke_.” He repeats, running the idea through his mind. Then he faints, almost gracefully, with a soft thud. Ida kneels before his head, hooks her arms around his shoulders, lifts him up and drags him into the living room and lies him down on the sofa.

"I'm going to get a pair of jeans," she excuses, walking out. Loki notices a thick, rectangular object wrapped in a plain plastic bag, with a hump rising from its’ back, on the table, hedged by a herd of plastic bags and one black rucksack. He empties it onto the table, producing a book and a leather wallet. He digs through the wallet, which contains a couple of useless bank cards, spare change, a few notes and receipts, and then pockets it as she walks back in.

“Is this of any use to you?” He asks, handing it to her. She takes it, reads the cover and then cheers loudly, throwing her arms in the air.

“What?”

“I’ve wanted this for ages!” She explains. “It’s supposed to be great! But well, it’s a gift and opening it when I shouldn’t ruins it… even if it is late.”

“Late?”

“My birthday was last month, but he couldn’t get here.”

“In that case, you’ve every right to it.”

“I guess you’re right,” she admits, smiling at him.

“Of course I am.”

“ _Whoa, hvad skete der_?” Lukas asks, gradually pushing himself up into a sitting position.

“ _Du er sent!_ ” She snaps, smacking his arm. The two stare at each other before he hugs her. She sinks into his arms. “ _Du besvimede også_.”

He raises a brow but, upon noticing Loki, hesitates and untangles himself from her. His eyes dart between the two of them. Loki can practically see the wheels in his head turn. But Lukas shrugs and looks over to the table.

“Looking for something?” Ida asks, holding the book up.

He smiles,“ _Tillykke med en sen fødelsdag, lille_.”

She rushes over and hugs him, squealing, “ _Du er fantastisk!_ ”, then sits at the table and buries her nose in the book. Lukas stands and walks over to the table, then searches the empty bag. Tossing it aside, he approaches Loki with his hand outstretched.

“My wallet, please.”

“What makes you so certain?”

Lukas scowls and flexes his fingers.

“You’re smarter than you look.” Loki relents, producing the wallet. Lukas snatches it back. “But you’ve poor manners.”

Lukas ignores him, and sits across from his sister, pulls his laptop from his bag and opens it up.

“Will you be staying long?”

“I leave tonight,” he explains. “I only came for her.”

He nods to Ida, who mutters, “ _Jeg kan klare mig selv_.”

“ _Jo, selvfølgelige_.” He scratches his nose. Sofie enters the room first, going to sit beside Ida, and throws herself into her work, as Tove strolls in, grabbing an apple, bids all a good morning and in the same breath, chimes, “See you!”

“Where are you going?” Ida asks.

“Stopping for a while, then to my grading.”

“Which belt is it this time?”

“My nidan.” When Ida stares blankly at her, she adds, “Second black belt. Last of my shodans!”

“Certified ninja?” Lukas asks.

“Pretty much.” She taps Sofie’s shoulder, “Goodbye kiss?”

Sofie obliges sweetly and, as Tove inches away, pulls her back for a second, longer kiss, explaining, “For good luck.”

A ruby-red blush burns over Tove’s cheeks, as she rushes out of the house.

“Tell Freja I said hi!” Lukas calls as she leaves.

Ida goes back to reading, Lukas to his work, and Sofie to her papers. All is quiet until Sofie snatches the newspaper from the table, meanders over to him, and throws it at him. It lands on his chest and flutters into his lap. He looks up at her.

“Bored crazy people are the worst,” she explains bluntly, strutting back to the table.

“I can’t read this,” he says, holding it up.

“Not my problem.”

He opens the first page and starts to read.

The next time Ida looks up, a little over three or so hours later, it’s because the front door slams. A bag falls to the floor with a clunk, followed by light footsteps.

“Guess who’s a Kendo Nidan?” Tove announces, appearing in the doorway with her arms wide and a large grin, big enough for the crinkles in her eyelids to swallow her eyes, plastered across her face proudly.

“Congrats!” Lukas says, looking up momentarily from his work. Sofie hurries over and wraps her arms around Tove, mumbling sweet nothings. After a while, Sofie’s arms unwind, as Lukas stands.

“Hungry?”

"Starving."

“That I can help with,” Lukas interjects, “but I’ll need a hand.”

He looks over to Ida, who wordlessly volunteers, “Sofie?”

“Tired,” she yawns.

“We’ll need an extra pair of hands.”

“Loki!” Ida suggests, beaming. Lukas’s eyes bulge from their sockets.

“What?”

“Lend a hand,” she prompts. “Yours work just fine.”

Behind her, Lukas titters.

“I… I wouldn’t know how.”

“I’ll show you.”

“Could you hurry up?” Sofie complain. Ida catches his eye, offers a welcoming smile and an encouraging little nod. He deliberates a little, but gets to his feet and makes his way to her side.

“What do I do?” She hands him a knife, pads of her fingers and thumb on the blade, handle first and a handful of washed potatoes.

“Peel and dice,” she prompts. He draws a blank. “You haven’t done this before.”

“I’ve been raised with others to do it for me.”

“You’ll adapt,” Lukas tells him quickly. Unsure as to whether or not he should thank or slap him, Loki does neither and attempts to peel a potato. Ida watches him from the corner of her eye, giggling as he tries to negotiate the blade through the skin.

“You find this amusing?”

She nods, “You’re making it harder for yourself. Just pull the blade towards you, not too fast, and that’ll do it.”

He tries her advice and gradually, it becomes easier for him. But she’s quicker with a knife, close to skilled. He occasionally glances at her, fascinated by her speed and captured by a small, content smile, ever-present on her lips, and only looks away when she catches him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles, focusing again. Soon, after they’re done, the room begins to fill with the smell of cooking, warm and pleasant, like home. After a short while, Lukas plates up for everyone and they sit and eat together, Lukas sat awkwardly on the back of the sofa. When everyone is finished Ida and Lukas wash up, stood side by side at the sink.

“We need to talk,” he whispers.

“We are.”

“No, I mean privately.”

“Oh… ok.” He leaves through the back door and she follows. He leans against the side of the house, whilst she stands a few paces back, parallel to him.

“What’s going on with you two?”

She rolls her eyes, “Nothing.”

“You mean that?”

“Of course I do,” her own unmistakable disgust hits her own ears, and he flinches from it.

“I’m just worried. Creeps like him get off on this; they think they’ve ‘stolen someone’s innocence’…. What is he even doing here?”

“To put it simply, he went on some quest for power, did a lot of bad things, failed and got sent here.”

“And you’re helping him, aren’t you?” She looks down, shuffles her feet and picks at her sleeves, “Ida?”

“I might be,” she mumbles.

“Ida,” he groans, raking a hand through his hair, “he’s not some lost puppy!”

“I know but he’s not just a bad guy, or some broken toy… there’s something else there-”

“Something else?” He echoes, aghast, “This guy can and would kill you, but you trust him not to because you believe in him?”

“Yes.”

“And you won’t give up,” he reminds himself with a wistful, patronising smile, as if he sees a headstrong child in her place, begging him to let her keep a broken baby bird. But Loki is not as delicate or simple, and she is not a little girl anymore.

“Of course I won’t.”

“You’re not safe around him.” He urges, his voice suddenly becoming softer and more childish, as he steps forward, “Please, come home with me - or go to Dad’s - and he’ll be gone. Please, I don’t want to be useless. I just want to look after my baby sister.”

“I’m not a baby anymore!” She snaps, “I know what I’m doing and I’m not leaving! Now, if you’ve nothing better to do, go!”

“I’ll be back Saturday, I promise.”

“Sure you will,” she mutters, sulking. As soon as she says it, all respect drains from his eyes and he starts to slowly back away from her.

“I’m not the bad guy here, but you’re not my only problem.” He turns to leave.

“Lu-” The kitchen door cuts her off. Through the glass, she can see his silhouette rest for a moment, and then disappear. Stood, a sinking feeling washes over her. It drowns out any pride, making her resent having even spoken. She can still feel how wrong and unnecessary her bitterness was, and hates how weak she was to let it win. Swift lies bleed through the door, and then the front door closes and he walks down the street. She steps inside, bypassing the other three. Loki notices her wipe her eyes as she goes. Sofie and Tove exchange odd looks and Loki, grabbing the book from the sofa, walks to her room. The door’s open, and her quiet room swallows him up. He notices at the bookshelves reaching from floor to ceiling, stretching along most of the wall to his left, stuffed with old books, with fraying and broken spines, and fading titles, mingling among newer, gaudier covers. He looks up, catching sight of the ceiling: dark blue and speckled with fake ‘stars’ arranged to resemble various constellations, unfamiliar to the ones he learnt as a child.

And, laid on the floor, is her. In the middle of the floor, she looks like a tiny, desert island. Her hair pools around her head, resembling a puddle of blood. Her chest ebbs like the tide, lungs reaching for air, and her eyes are closed, dried tears tracing their way down her cheeks. Watching her, either floating or drowning, unsettles him.

“Ida?” She jerks up, notices him and then quickly pulls herself together, tucking her legs up to her chest and wiping her eyes.

“I brought you these,” he hands her the books. “What happened?”

“I said something, he said something and… I don’t know, it’s been a long week and it’s… it’s all my fault.”

He hovers in the doorway, fumbling his tongue, as he debates what to do. Something urges him to offer comfort, but it’s fleeting, weak and soon snuffed out by doubt.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she reassures him, managing a small but earnest smile. Her expression then hardens, “I’m sorry I called you a problem. You’re not, you’re… you’re my friend. And I make it seem as if you’re trapped here but that’s not fair so if you want, you can leave.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

She shrugs, “It’s your choice.”

“Then I think I’ll stay, for now. And, having said that, I am sorry for what I have said to you over the past few days.” He directs his attention to the bookshelves, “May I borrow one?”

She takes a sharp breath, “I’m picky about my books.”

“I swear, I will return it in the exact same condition in which I have found it.”

“You swear?”

“As the child says, ‘cross my heart’,” he draws a cross over the left side of his chest.

“Alright.” He looks the covers over and picks one he understands.

“I know this one,” he muses, more to himself than her.

“I’ve never read it. I borrowed it but didn’t understand it. You have Shakespeare in Asgard?”

“We have books from across the nine realms, the greatest tales each has to offer. This,” he gestures to her shelves, “would be a fraction of the palace libraries.”

“What’s Asgard like?”

He falters, suppressing a hiccup of homesickness as he remembers the golden corridors, the splendid, shining kingdom among the heavens…

“It is the jewel of the Nine,” he answers emotionlessly. “But enough about it. It is of little importance.”

He makes his way to the door but stops, and twists his head to face her, “The fault was never yours.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: not-so graphic mentions of rape.

Both Tove and Sofie are awake and sat at the kitchen table when Ida walks in the following morning. Both wordlessly acknowledge her presence with a simultaneous nod, which strikes her as a tad creepy. When she sits down, Sofie looks down at her mug. Her fingers drum against the table top.

“What is it?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing.”

“He’s right: you _are_ a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying!” She insists, but then she soon admits, much more softly, “I-I’m sorry.”

“You’re what?” Tove mutters.

“I really am. I realised that everything I’ve said just held you back, it was cruel, and it didn’t help, and.... here’s the thing: we’re not dead. And that in itself, with everything considered, is wonderfully miraculous and I like being alive and all, and if I’m honest, that’s mostly down to you. You got my back.” When Sofie smiles, it’s rare, genuine, and threatens to overwhelm Ida, still half-asleep, “Thanks.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Ida answers, trying to level her feelings out, “So any great plans?”

“Yep, I’m bored and I want out,” Tove suggests.

“You know that won’t work out,” Sofie argues. Tove begins to counter, but her voice fades when Loki strolls in. He slides the borrowed book across the table to Ida, and then begins to make himself breakfast. As he sits with them, Ida asks, “So, Loki, how about getting out of here?”

He freezes, startled by the idea, and then asks, “You are aware that people will be looking for me, are you not?”

"Yep,” Sofie answers. “We know who they are, what they do and how they do it. But we can find a way to get around it, like cutting your hair-"

"No."

“Here then," she offers him a hairband.

“Do I have to?”

“No, but you know the alternative.”

He takes it and swiftly ties his hair up, “How do I look?”

With most of his hair out of the way, Ida notices how much his bruises and scars have faded; although they’re still clear as day, his skin is no longer a morbid, multi-coloured pattern. In fact, he looks more human than ever before, “A bit better than usual.”

“But that’s not much of an improvement,” Tove jokes.

"Something’s still not good enough," Sofie notes. After a pause, she pulls off her own glasses and forces them onto his face. The result, albeit confused and very indignant, is virtually unrecognisable, "It works."

"I can't see."

Sofie takes back her glasses and leaves, then returns with a matching pair, "Try these."

When he does, he can see again.

"OK, so no-one's gonna recognise him now, can we go?" Tove whines, getting up. She walks out, Sofie follows, and Ida trails after, sparing Loki a backwards glance. He continues to eat, ignoring them, so she carries on, out of the door. The streets are slathered in dirty snow, cloud paints the sky grey, a slow mist creeps up from behind and the wind howls in her ears. The other two start to walk towards the centre of town, but she stays, waiting on the pavement and expecting him (against better judgement) to follow. They only stop when they realise she isn’t beside them.

“Come on!” Tove calls, laughing, “Leave him!”

“Just wait,” she tells them. But, when she sees the distance between them, and then looks to the closed door, her resolve wanes. The want to leave becomes more apparent, messing with her expectations. Only on the verge of her leaving does he emerge, striding out casually. At first, the cold wind surprises him, having nothing else but her brother’s coat to separate him from the elements, but he quickly adjusts. _He’s used to it_ , she reminds herself.

She leafs through the racks of clothing until they repeat themselves. Loki does the same, and every so often, she catches his expression, as it alternates between despondent and annoyed, and sympathises. The other two have wandered out of sight, leaving her and Loki in an awkward silence, both bored and uncertain.

"Let's go somewhere else,” he suggests.

“Ok, just give me a second and I'll go tell the others."

“You don’t need to,” he argues. “They’ll find you.”

“Well…. C'mon then,” she prompts. He follows her as they leave and start to walk down a street until she enters another store, with carefully stacked piles of books in the windows.

"Why am I not surprised?" He asks.

"I'm a girl who knows what she likes," she answers, looking around as they meander through the shelves, which stand as tall as him and dwarf her. Stopping, she hooks her foot around a nearby stand, kicks towards her and then stands on it, now a whole head above him, “Problem solved.”

“I’m not sure if I like you above me.”

“Too bad, I love it,” she gloats, smirking. “You’ll just have to live with it.”

“Oh, if I must,” he concludes, with a flippant shrug, looking her in the eye. His face seems to change; he stares at her intensely, fascinated, with a flicker of admiration, “It does look good on you.”

She watches his face as the two inch closer, her heart beginning to race.

“Is this ‘nothing personal’?”

“On the contrary, I’d say this is very personal,” he answers, paused so close that their noses touch. His right hand reaches up to cup her cheek, his eyes burning into hers, and her heart pounds. “Believe me.”

It’d be best to stop this but she doesn’t want to, unable to look away from him, whilst all the while aware of her surroundings, of what’s happening, and simultaneously not caring about anything else at all, free and daring, left with only anticipation.

She looks behind him fleetingly, and then freezes. He stops. Seconds later, she ducks behind a shelf, peeking through the space between two books. Loki crouches beside her, and spies an adolescent boy with shaggy blonde hair and bad acne, leaning against a shelf and looking over in their direction searchingly.

"Who is he?"

“Just someone I know… h-he thinks I owe him something.”

"Which is why you're hiding from him?"

"I'm not hiding. I just don't want to him to see me." When the boy’s friends eventually find him, he leaves, and she breathes a sigh of relief.

"Have you ever considered telling him to leave you alone?"

"I do, tons of times, but he never takes no for an answer," she admits, her voice quiet and vulnerable, as she looks down.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” she lies. She shies away from him, distracting herself by browsing the shelves. He doesn’t press the issue, which surprises her, although she can feel his eyes on her.

But she can still feel her eyes on him. The sensation constantly pulls her back to him. It'd be better to focus, focus on him, but she can't. She starts to long to tell him, and tosses the idea around her head for a while. The average victim, she reminds herself, takes seven years to find the confidence to confide in anyone or go to the police. In comparison, her seven months are a drop in the ocean. But it's one that's burrowed under her skin. The truth invaded everything she could think of and choked her, trapped, left her drowning on its bitter taste. No matter how much she pretends, the truth is slowly killing her from the inside. 

It begins to weigh down on her, all too much like guilt. Soon, she decides. But it takes all her courage to near him, and to admit, "Look, I-"

“Found you!” A familiar voice calls. She looks up to see Tove and Sofie approaching, Tove with her hand outstretched, “You’ve got the key."

By the time they return, the twilight has painted everything dark blue. Rain drenches them from head to toe. In their strange quartet they weave through sleepy streets, passing one big house that sticks out for all to see. It bleeds music, a mess of screaming, as people clutter its lawn. Glass shatters and the crowd roars with false laughter. Tove, furthest in front, stops them. She recognises the house, her smile growing into a mischievous grin, “We could crash it.”

“No,” Ida objects, "My mum has a whole cupboard just for drinks back home."

Tove raises a brow, grin widening, "Sweet.”

Torrential rain lashes against the windows, but a cocktail of loud, angry music and slurred laughter drown it out, as Tove and Sofie attempt to outdrink each other, slumped against each other on the sofa. A sudden flash of lightning follows, and Tove and Sofie clutch each other, giggling drunkenly. Loki freezes, staring out of the window. In the brief light, Ida can see his anxiety mix with anticipation, as he waits for someone. But, when it passes, and the thunder roars after it, he forgets it and looks directly at her, on the other side of the room, and manages a half-hearted smile. She looks down, staring into her glass; vodka watered down into lemonade.

“What time is it?” Sofie asks.

“Seven minutes past midnight.” Ida answers.

“ _WOO THURSDAAAAAY_.” Tove bellows. Loki takes another sip of his drink, enjoying the sting somewhat too much as he swallows. He smiles to himself against the rim of the glass.

"I call drinking game!" Tove announces, jumping up. She stumbles toward the cupboard, left ajar, "Ida, your mum has a fuckload of drinks…. GOTCHA!"

She holds a bottle of amber liquid aloft for all to see, and then, having read the label, whistles, “Fuck this must have been expensive.”

She slumps back in her seat, "An’ now the fun begins. ‘Worst day of your life’ – basically, ya tell the story o’ the worst day of ye’ life."

"That’ll end well," Sofie deadpans.

“You got that from a book,” Ida claims, but Tove shushes her.

"Ya only talk if you’re holding the bottle, an’ the person with the worst story drinks. Seein’ as she objects the most, the beautiful cynic to m’ right is first,” Sofie begins to object, but Tove pushes the bottle into her hands, “Shuddup an’ take the bottle."

"Fine then," she grumbles, "Worst day of my life was… the day I first moved, I guess, because I had to learn a new language and look after my mum, so it was like the end of my childhood. But it was also the beginning of everything else, so it doesn’t really count.”

"Me next!” Tove snatches the bottle, “Worst day: er, my grandma died and I didn’t get to go to her funeral. Lo’s next!"

She passes it to Loki, to which he says, "There is far too much to tell.”

"I'll go then," Ida volunteers. She takes the bottle, unscrews the cap, and knocks it back with a grimace. When it's done, she looks up the neck of the empty bottle then drops it. Her eyes follow its path to the floor. Loki’s seen that look before: the bookshop.

"Party foul!" Tove giggles.

"I needed it." Ida snaps. Tove shrinks back into her chair. Ida doesn’t look up as she admits, "Worst day of my life was last summer. You know that party we crashed, the one I left early? I'd gone outside for some fresh air because it was too loud and I didn't really like it. You two didn't notice. And while I was out there, Mikkel came up to me. He wasn't so bad. He’d asked me out but I wasn't interested, and I thought he was ok with it, so we just talked, but then he grabs me and tries to kiss me, and he touched me, and it freaked me out because I didn't want it but I c-couldn’t stop him…" At which point, she can hear herself, and freezes, suddenly aware of all their eyes on her, as they drink it all. Her skin crawls, and she can barely breathe, "You can guess what happened after that… I-I got to get out of here."

“No!” Tove objects, hastily getting up. The two collide in the doorway, and Tove gently tries to look her in the eye, “You shouldn’t be alone right now. Ida, whatever’s happened to you wasn’t your fault. Please, I’m here for you. You’ll be ok.”

“No, I won’t, I never was. Every time I’ve ever looked fine I’ve been lying, and have been for months. I won’t be ok, can’t you see that?”

“You can’t really think that about yourself? Ida?” Tove pleads. Her hands wrap around Ida’s wrists, “Ida?”

“Let. Me. Go.”

Tove obeys instantly and Ida storms out. With her, leaves his idea of her – defiant, stubborn, naïve, and unhindered by any pain – and what remains is that disconcerting image, stamped in his mind; one of her, mutating into someone he does not know, and more importantly, does not trust. In seconds, she turns into a liar, broken, ashamed, and almost as bad as him.


	13. Chapter 13

The fire crackles, and the warmth slowly brings his aching bones back to life. Thor shuffles in his seat. The damaged skin beneath his bandages itches, unable to breathe, and his wound carry a deep, unforgettable sting. But here, before the fireplace, he tries to ignore it, tries to let the fire warm him. He closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and breathes, but even there, bad memories find him.

Segmented, broken images flicker before his mind’s eyes, wavering like a candle’s flame. The more recent events return to him first. In his ears rings the clashing of swords, and axes and shields and hammers, and the shrill, agonised cries of the fallen as Asgard’s warriors fight for a modicum of peace among the chaos left in the aftermath of Loki’s schemes. Before Thor can stop himself, memories of Loki surface; memories that feel as real as life itself: he feels the bite of Loki’s blade in his side yet again; hears Loki’s harsh laughter pierce his ears, remembers how Gungnir slashed into his cheek, how Loki dared him to fight and how he tried to goad Thor into surrender… how, in childhood, they had been closer. Now, Thor hears his own words echo: ‘played together, fought together’, as his childhood emerges before his mind’s eye, mixed with the present to produce a nauseating blend of pain, joy, destruction, the sound of Loki’s laughter growing from innocent to maniacal permanently drilled into Thor’s memory –

Thor regains himself quickly, as if pulling his head out of water. His hands, previously gripping the chair’s arms, slacken. He relaxes back, takes a deep, cleansing breath, and focuses on the fire. That sickness remains, no matter what, yet Thor concentrates so deeply to get away that he misses the doors of his chambers swing open.

"Heimdall requests your presence." One of the Einherjar guards announces suddenly.

“Why?” Thor demands. The guard leaves Thor's chambers as swiftly as he entered, and ignores Thor. Perplexed, he swiftly makes himself decent, and then he ventures down to Heimdall's loyal post at the shattered foot of the Bifrost, overlooking space as the waterfalls beneath the bridge plummet into the void.

“You wished to see me?” Thor asks. Heimdall does not respond and continues to watch the sky. “Heimdall?”

Upon receiving no answer, Thor joins his wordless vigil. After a couple of moments, unsettled by the nothingness staring back at him, it occurs to him that out there is Loki. As if he can not stop himself, he spares yet another second to think of Loki, despite knowing full well he should not. His brother is beyond these realms.

"He  _is_  out there," Heimdall tells him, “I know where he is.”

"I was told only my father knew."

"As was I, yet I can see him."

"Where is he?"

"Midgard."

The shock of Heimdall’s abrupt words nearly sends Thor falling into the abyss below, before he can even process them.

"What?!" He manages to ask, astonished, “Why would Odin do such a thing?”

“It was not his choice.”

“Then whose could it have possibly been?”

"I suggest you find the Norns," Heimdall advises.

“Why?”

“There is little else I can tell you that they will not reveal,” Heimdall explains. With that, Thor leaves.

 

Beneath one of the three roots of Yggdrasil, at the well of Urdr, the three Norns watch over the fates of gods and mankind alike. There are three – Urdr, an aged woman, curved to the right and therefore in full view, for what's past; Verdandi, neither young or old, stood at the centre, for what is; and Skuld, a young, unpredictable and restless shield-maiden, who skulks in the root’s shadow, hidden in part by a dark cloak, for what should be – and together they weave golden threads of fate and measure the destinies of every being in the cosmos. Thor pushes ahead, presenting himself at their seat beneath the world's tree, and clears his throat to gain their attention.

They notice him yet continue to whisper amongst each other, until Verdandi begins, her voice deeply patronising, "The mighty Thor Odinson, come to demand of his treacherous 'brother'."

"What did you do?" He asks.

Urdr answers, “Your father was more than willing to relinquish his tie to Loki’s fate and we generously took it.”

"Since when have Norns been one to hand out favours?"

"Are you aware of your tone Odinson?" Verdandi retorts. "Are you aware of whom you address?"

"Absolutely; I address those who can help me best."

"Then accept our answers and heed our advice, without question," Skuld advises, "In short:  _think_."

"Why did you send my brother to Midgard?"

The three conspire among each other for a moment before Verdandi begins, "Our worlds are suspended as they are for eternity. We who are immortal are resigned to our fate."

"Whereas Earth," Skuld continues, "wrapped in a blanket in its' own naivety, spins on and ever-changing; its people are aware of change's cost. The Allfather seeks peace through that change."

"We showed him the price of what he wanted." Urdr concludes, "Yet no price is too high for a king."

"What must be done in order for Loki to return?"

"You will see," Skuld replies, barely a whisper.

"Speak plainly!"

 “You have exhausted our patience,” Verdandi decrees, “Go. Demand answers from your father."

"I shall," he pledges, and then leaves. Verdandi turns towards Skuld, who stares into the well’s deep waters.

"Will it work?" Skuld smiles as if proudly drawing a sword.

"Of course.”

 

The throne room’s golden doors begin to heave open, as Thor approaches, and allow him a brief glance inside at where Odin sits enthroned, no doubt waiting for the next visitor. Suddenly, Thor stops. He wills himself to venture ahead but finds he cannot and so waits, and calls upon his courage – for he can face monsters, but the thought of betraying his father fills him with venomous dread, and erodes his bravery until all that remains is a useless, dying ember. He tries to stoke that ember to life, for Asgard, Midgard, for peace and for himself… and for Loki.

That last thought spurs him on and he finds himself sauntering ahead. In that moment, the fire begins to blaze and sets his path in stone.

“I must speak with you.”

Odin rises, with not a break in his cold composure, “I know.”

Thor halts at the throne’s feet, as Odin descends, “Then you’ll know what I have to say.”

“Indeed,” he stops aside Thor, who eagerly awaits his next word, “What you want is impossible. The traitor deserves his punishment.”

“Does Midgard deserve to be saddled with him?” Odin does not respond, standing still and silent beside Thor. He barely spares Thor a glance and allows silence to descend, until Thor breaks it, “I do not come here seeking permission. I seek your help.”

“Your search was in vain,” Odin retorts, without even a hint of emotion.

“Permit me this one thing,” Thor says, close to pleading.

“I have told you, it is impossible,” Odin insists, as cold as before, “Even if there were a way for you to return safely, there is no means to say that it is worth wasting your time.”

“But I believe it is.”

“Your belief will not change anything.”

“You give nothing a chance!” Thor finds himself spluttering, unable to maintain composure. The words are more of an impulse than the truth, but once said, there is no backing down. If they’ve made a difference, Odin reveals nothing.

“I only seek to safe-guard Asgard’s future.”

“There will be no future to protect if you remain so hell-bent!”

“I have no need to answer to you,” Odin snaps. “As the king, my word is final.”

“Face the truth: your word is wrong, and has brought us here, to the edge of destruction. If you continue this way, your word will be our end!”

“From where do you find your insolence?”

“Obedience is no indication of respect,” Thor reasons, as calm as he can manage, “I respect you, as my father and my king, but will not tolerate further destruction.”

“Do you know one who might talk us out of a war?” Odin asks dismissively.

The flicker of a smile flutters across Thor’s face as he remembers, “There is one.”

“He will not work for us.”

“He will not work for you.” Thor corrects, “What he wants is destruction, and the throne for himself. The destruction of our enemies secures Asgard and that throne.”

“I will never offer him the throne, not for anything.”

Thor agrees, adding, “But you will offer it to me, one day. And, when I can trust him completely, I will share it with him. You know I cannot rule alone.”

“He will not share, and he will not agree with you.”

“Is it any worse than leaving him among mortals when we are so beset, when we need a force other than our own might?”

“That is not your place to determine.” Odin tells him, his stern voice waning just a bit, “You cannot rule a kingdom on an idea. The people need certainty and stability. Moreover, you might never return.”

Thor steels himself against the truth, and firmly says, “It is worth it.”

Odin begins to walk in the direction of the Bifrost, right past as if Thor does not exist. Understanding what he means, Thor follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With regard to the Norns, I was basing it more on the mythology than the comics because, unless they're in the more recent JiMs and I've just missed them, I've not read a comic with the Norns in, so if there are discrepancies then it's my own fault.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: semi-graphic depiction of assault.

Loki wakes with an instantaneous lurch of his stomach and chokes back vomit as it rises in his throat. His head aches, a high-pitched, grainy whining rings endlessly through his ears, and every limb pains him, each as heavy as stone. Something seems to have sapped his desire to move, to think, or to do anything at all.

In short, for the first time and despite not even being heavily intoxicated, he's hung-over – a sick reminder of his mortality and of where he is – which unfortunately means last night happened.

Against the dull thud of a migraine, he tries to pull himself out of a deep sleep, flickers of a dream returning to him: a falcon and an eagle, pursuing each other through a thunderstorm, the eagle fast approaching the falcon's tail, and, at the last moment, the eagle seized the falcon and the thunder roared in… well, he'd describe it as agony. But, before he dare linger upon the thought, the door swings open. Leaning on its’ handle is Tove.

"… We thought she'd be in here." She mumbles, stumbling a little. Her sleepy eyes are hooded and red-rimmed, held near-permanently on the floor, and her skin is sallow, near lifeless.

"Why?"

"Uh... because… well, it was just an idea, I don't know…"

"She left?" Sickening fear forms in his gut.

"Yeah," she wipes her eyes, her hand trembling, and then leaves the room, closing the door firmly behind her. With that, he elects to curl back up and hide from the stinging daylight, to sleep the entire day away. But, after a few more attempts, he rises and ventures into the living room. Tove stares into space as Sofie paces and forth, her rambling relentless, and runs her hands through her hair. He walks on and ignores them as he goes about his morning, now used to how everything works. When done, he watches the both of them continue to worry.

"Why so concerned?"

The two of them glare at him in contempt. Sofie fumes, "You know why."

"Why wouldn't she return?"

"She has plenty of reasons not to," Tove explains, “And she could be anywhere by now."

"Impossible-"

"No, it is possible. There are tons of ways to get out, she had the money too, and nothing would have stopped her."

"Whose house did we pass again?” Sofie prompts.

"It was…” Tove’s eyes widen, and she whispers, “Oh my God.”

Sofie leaves suddenly and returns with her laptop open in her arms, setting it down on the table and prompting them to gather around.

"What is this?" Loki asks, up until now a bystander, alarmed by his own growing concern.

"Facebook." She explains, "Nowadays, people mostly talk on the internet, and most of them are on here. Party gossip always ends up on here; stuff like this."

She clicks on a small square and the screen goes black. Seconds later, a dizzying, rushing gaggle of orange light jostles for space on the screen, as the cameraman – a young man, with a loud, obnoxious voice, who also fancies himself narrator – lifts above the drunken crowd, slurring and laughing. In the far left, beneath an amber streetlight, is a small, panicked figure, crouched beside a bike, their red hair fiery in the light and their hands working the bike’s lock at a furious pace. Ida. But, before she can get away, a tall, young man sprints up to her, and punches her across the face. She tumbles to the ground in a flurry of crimson and copper, and he kicks her onto her back, and then he sits straddled over her hips, pushing all his weight onto her, her arms caught beneath her. One of his hands presses her forehead to the gravel. The other, balled into a fist, holds a sliver of silver at her cheek. It catches the light, glinting, as it digs into her skin. A slight, icy touch of panic creeps up on Loki, but he remains glued. Ida lies still, with her eyes closed, as he hurls abuse at her. The crowd bubbles with gossip, above which he hears Mikkel ask, loud and clear as though in the very room:

“ _HVEM ER HAN?!_ ”

She mumbles her retort, lips barely moving, quiet but coldly defiant. Whatever she said, Loki knows she didn’t answer. Mikkel pulls the blade back, slashing across her cheek, and waves of noise erupt from the crowd, drowning out her scream. Shrill shrieking pierces through the laptop’s speakers and he nearly laughs. _Have they never seen violence before?_

“I’m going to be sick,” Tove murmurs, before rushing over to the sink and vomiting. He does not look away, waiting for a conclusion – either for her demise or escape – to put his mind at a kind of ease. Two from the crowd approach, trying to pull him away, but he shoves them back, twisted towards them, and yells, “ _LAD MIG VÆRE!_ ”

Ida slowly pushes herself up and swings a weak blow at his face, but Mikkel seizes her arm at the last second. Then everything goes dark. All that can be heard is a pained yelp, which sounds a little like Ida, and then a sudden flash of light illuminates the screen. The video ends with a quick glimpse at the hazy beginnings of a spectacular extra-terrestrial storm – the Bifrost.

"She went after that." Sofie concludes. "No doubt about it and, if Selvig's notes are to be believed, the Bifrost enters at a point it has previously, which for us means the S.H.I.E.L.D site."

"Right, I'm going." Tove declares, storming out of the room.

"You can't-"

"Watch me!"

"You can’t go _alone_ ," Sofie corrects, standing up. She closes her laptop and shoves it in her bag, "I'm coming with you."

She follows Tove, and through the doorway he observes her throw on her coat, and wraps her scarf round her neck. She then faces him, leaning against the doorway, “And you’re coming with us.”

“Why?”

“My aunt has this saying: ‘an empty gun scares forty; a loaded one scares one’. The moral of the story is ‘control your power’, but I look at it like this: you’re our empty gun. With that, I can twist their arm my way.”

“That requires that I accompany you and, given that you intend to use me, why would I?”

“The possibility of getting back.” she answers, “We both know what that was, that it can get you back. On top of that, S.H.I.E.L.D. has tech beyond anything I can get. You might be a prisoner again, but if you stay here you've nothing. However, if you can go back to Asgard, you take it down from the inside, and that's all you're concerned with. But you're not going back until Asgard says so. It's not your choice, it's theirs."

“Then what’s the point of leaving?”

“Fuck, I am so sick of your bullshit. Look, you’re not the only ‘villain’. You’re not even a decent one – you know Thanos, right?”

The familiar name catches him off-guard and, frozen, staring into space, he remembers. A shiver races down his spine. It takes little under a second for him to regain his senses, but Sofie sees his hiccup nonetheless. A smug smile creeps across her lips, “That’s just the beginning. There are hundreds of people better, crazier, and deadlier than you could ever be. So you can grow up, do what's right, and die a decent death, or you can burn as a coward.”

“No matter how much you sharpen your mind, the knife still remains dull.” He rises, towering over her. She barely flinches. “I do not do what is right. I would rather burn as a coward than perish the Allfather’s slave. I will never die a decent death.”

She shrugs, and he adds, “All that aside, how do you know she’s not d-”

“Don’t say it!” Tove commands.

“No, go ahead,” Sofie prompts coldly. “What if she’s what, Loki?”

“Dea-” His throat dries before he can finish the sentence. **_Dead_** _\- just say it: what if she’s dead?_ Eyes closed, never to open again, and body still and cold, never to move again. No beautiful smile, no laughter, nothing whatsoever - "I hate you people.”

"The feeling's mutual," they say. The three of them walk off towards S.H.I.E.L.D, Sofie explaining her plan as they walk: "I’ll pose as a reporter or something and try to get in, and from there, I’ll let you two in. We get in, find her and get out."

“That’d work if it wasn’t completely suicidal,” Loki quips.

“Well, considering you have such an excellent track record, what does the King of Strategy suggest?”

“Find a weakness. These people have many.”

“Found one,” Tove interjects, pointing ahead. Although much of the base still stands, parts of it lie in ruins – battered corridors languish among torn apart tents and dented trailers, and teams of people ferry in between the rubble in the recovery process.

“Left side,” she notes, “It’s completely exposed, with no personnel, and I’m going for it.”

Sofie follows her, as does Loki, and they tread along the outline before slipping behind a trailer and directly into S.H.I.E.L.D’s midst.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Tove teases. Loki glares at her, saying nothing, and shoves them along, prompts the other two to move. As they search, they dip between trailer and tent and, with each step, he becomes more aware of eyes upon him. They turn a corner and suddenly face down the barrel of a gun. A crowd of agents gather around them, their weapons raised.

"Hands where I can see them!" Their leader commands. The trio obliges, maintaining composure.

"What do you want?" He demands. Before any of them can answer, he drops to the ground, sprawled like a starfish, and his weapon tumbles to the ground. The remaining agents look among each other, in varying states of confusion. The crowd part for them as someone else steps forward. Loki's heart jumps into his mouth. A tiny, ice-cold smile graces Thor’s lips.

"Hello brother."

Loki turns to stone. Every atom of his body protests, urging him to move or to talk or to gain the upper hand by any means possible –

Thor strides forward, snatches Loki’s collar and leads him inside, then along a corridor. Peeking over Thor’s shoulder, Loki can see the other two being taken in the opposite direction. Thor’s face betrays barely a trace of emotion, disturbingly stoic. Trepidation begins to sink in, as languorous as walking through thick mud.

“Brother, I can explain,” Loki finally manages to say. To his own ears, he sounds weak, and curses himself for it. But Thor does not reply. He hardly even acknowledges Loki. They round a corner and Thor pulls a sliding door aside, and then drags Loki into the snow-white room with him. The door locks behind them. Only then does Thor relinquish his hold and edge away, sitting in one of two chairs in the room. The silver legs strain beneath him. Without a word, he motions to the other. Loki takes a seat, crossing his arms over his chest, his legs apart as normal. He does not – _will not_ – look at Thor. Silence falls, both waiting the other to speak.

“You’ll have to talk some point,” Thor says. Loki ignores him. “…. You look well.”

“Why are you here? Does Odin desire to imprison me in entrails and hang a poisoned serpent above my head?”

“I’ve come to take you home,” Thor explains. After a pause, he admits, much more softly, “I missed you.”

“You missed your pet.” Loki spits. “Do not even try to deny that I was nothing more than a ‘loyal’ lapdog to you.”

“I loved you!”

“You do not; you merely mourn for the days in which I lingered in your shadow.”

“Don’t you dare!” Thor booms, reducing Loki to unbearable vulnerability in seconds. “No matter what tricks or lies you might conjure, do not dare venture so far as to convince yourself that I never loved you. I do. No matter that we are not of the same blood, I care not. Believe me.”

To believe Thor might be a leap of faith too far, but to think Thor intends any harm would be even more foolish.

“You say you intend to return with me?” His voice sounds young, not quite his own.

“I swear it.”

“Will I be re-chained, and put in ‘my place’, again?”

Thor takes a moment before answering, “I believe that is your choice. Your fate is your own.”

“As if it were ever anyone else’s.” In truth, he knows well that fate has always been guiding him along. It steadied its hand on his shoulder and told him he was meant to be what he is, and he believed it - he was great, and terrible, and feared; why should he not? However, now dejected, and abandoned, and twisted, such faith does not come as easily. “What is to happen if we return?”

“ _When_ we return… we’ll see what happens.”

“No, answer me!”

“I cannot.” Thor confesses, “I long to, but I cannot.”

Eventually, Loki accepts it, “So be it.”

“You’ve changed.”

“Immeasurable pain changes everyone eventually.”

“It wasn’t pain.” Thor corrects with a self-assured smirk, implying the impossible.

“She means nothing.”

“If you insist,” Thor accepts, shrugging, “Although, I cannot see why not. She’s… nice enough.”

“Yes, but far too defiant, and utterly foolish.”

That inane smile of his stays, as Thor shakes his head a little with a soft chuckles, “And soon, you may believe that.”

“I would never stoop as low as you have.” Thor’s face straightens.

“You may sulk here or join the rest of us. I assume you’ll find us easily.” He tells Loki, attempting to remain civil, as he stands. When he leaves, the room instantly seems bigger, and emptier, and that void begins to unnerve him. _Too quiet, too lonely, so empty, too much like before_. But he is fine to be alone, he thinks; _of neither Asgard nor Jotunheim, only ever alone_. Then he decides to leave.


	15. Chapter 15

The first indication they have is when Thor leaves. His knuckles whiten as he grips Mjølnir’s handle and storms out of the small, ivory room. Ida picks at the rip in her sleeve, able to see the bloodied bandages beneath, and twists string around her finger until it turns purple, as Jane and Selvig argue in the background, picking and adding to and taking from a board, propped against the far left wall, covered in formulae, variables, and a wealth of assorted newspaper clippings, printed papers and random pictures of cosmic events. Although most of it is foreign to her, Ida can tell that none of it adds up. Darcy flitters between the two, asking and answering questions, occasionally making a decent joke, and handing them whatever they ask for from the spare crates and boxes of equipment left around. On the other side of the room is Agent Coulson, leaning against a metallic desk cross-armed, observant. In his hand is a file, containing menial information about herself – full name, age and date of birth, blood type, and next of kin – that she’d seen earlier, peeking over Darcy’s shoulder. He’d asked for more, as sensitively as possible, but she only mentioned Loki. Now, with nowhere else to put her, she remains under ‘guard’. Every so often, Darcy offers Ida an encouraging smile, graced with a touch of concern, and Ida does her best to return something similar as thanks, for finding, and saving, her. But she can’t bring herself to mean it. Being there constantly tells her that she is a burden, and that coming here was a mistake, and, until Loki materialises, she’s stuck. That last one sticks in her mind, and a venomous voice spits, _Pathetic_.

She mulls over the prospect of him seeing her like this. The old him would pounce on her weakness in a heartbeat. If she let him. But now, as she knows him, there's no certainty. There never was, but she knew that, lived with that, enjoyed that. Unpredictability made her feel alive, for the first time in months.

Now, when she needs stability, it's not there. She can't be certain if he'll revile at her scars or embrace them. But then, it occurs to her that, if he does toss her aside, she deserves better, no matter how much she might love him.

A tuft of dark hair marches past, followed by Tove, whose anxious gaze flitters around her surroundings. The cloud of hair swishes back and forth, in a violent, angry fashion. A screen door slides open, and two agents lead Sofie and Tove through with them.

“We were told you to bring them to you,” One tells Coulson. Both girls gawk at him, Tove more obvious than Sofie, as he approaches them, cold and stern.

“Names?”

“Sof,” Sofie answers, far more nonchalant than Ida’s ever seen. Both hands rest on dipped hips, as she slopes all her weight to the left. But, with her right heel raised and knee bent a little, her foot beats an agitated tattoo onto the floor.

“Full name?”

“Sofie Evren Ilke Yılmaz. Y-I, with no dot-L-M-A-Z. It’s Turkish.”

“And you?” He asks Tove.

“T-Tove Hilde Sten.”

“Wait here.” Coulson commands. They nod, Sofie more reluctant than Tove, and then Coulson passes past them, with the agents in tow. As soon as the door closes, Tove bounds over to Ida and wraps her arms around her, into an embrace so strong they nearly topple over. Sofie, on the other hand, notices something else.

“Oh my God,” she breathes, marvelling at the board to her left. An ecstatic grin blossoms, lighting her face up, “It’s beautiful, just… oh my goodness.”

Tove and Ida untangle, and watch as Sofie turns her head to the three adults staring her, simultaneously worried and confused.

“I’ve heard all about your work, and I just…” She brushes both hands through her hair, skinny fingers pressed into her scalp, and attempts to stifle an uneasy little giggle, her teeth biting into her lower lip, “You inspired me, honestly. Oh, in fact-” Sofie swings her bag to her front, unzips it and hunts through, producing a crumpled pile of papers, “- It’s just a theory, based mostly off your work, but I think… I think it could solve some things that need fixing.”

Jane gingerly takes the pages in hand, and begins to flicks through them. Sofie holds her breath, waiting. Jane’s face gradually progresses from sceptical to surprised, “You wrote  _this_?”

“Is it any good?”

“Erik, come look at this,” she beckons Selvig to her side, and he reads over her shoulder.

“It has potential,” he admits, “but a number of flaws. How exactly do you plan on seeing this out?”

“Hydra weapons – they used the power of the Tesseract, and SHIELD still possesses some. You use that power, and the portal starter, to force the Bifrost to work again, sort-of like hijacking a car.”

“Is that even possible?” Jane asks, to which Selvig adds:

“Would we be allowed?”

“You can hijack a car?” Darcy questions.

“As soon as I can get the material needed, if I can, I can put it together, and work it out from there.”

“You might like to see these,” Coulson interrupts, holding two files in his hands. Jane pins the theory to the board and takes one file, whilst Selvig picks the other, then reads through it, as Coulson leans against the glass wall and Thor appears, walking over to Jane and sidling up to her. Although only a brief glimpse, Ida spots a shadow of disappointment hanging about Thor – a facsimile of a frown, subtle furrows in his brow, and empty, almost dead eyes – that Jane, when she looks at him, notices too. Her face softens, concerned, but he smiles at her, chasing the sadness away. Jane hands Tove’s file to Darcy and starts to read over Erik’s shoulder, Thor mirroring her.

“You’re seventeen?” Selvig asks, eyes widening.

“That, Doctor, was your Chekov moment.”

“Oh, I like her,” Darcy pipes up from behind them.

“She’s  _seventeen.”_

“Dancing queen…” She sings, with a mischievous smile playing on her lips. He ignores her, and Tove’s laughter, and she continues to hum the song.

With a grin, Sofie manages to reason, “I’m eighteen in June.”

“Does your mother know you’re here?”

Darcy laughs, and Jane giggles, muttering a swift apology when she notices his unimpressed, pointed look, as Sofie answers, “She knows I’m with Ida, so I’m not lying…”

“Do you know how many cyber attacks we get?” Coulson asks her out of the blue.

“Around 500, 000 a year,” Sofie answers, as eager as if in class. The left side of his mouth twitches with the beginning of a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and she panics, “But I’m supposed to leave without a trace, I-I only took 2 minutes!”

Darcy whistles, “Impressive.”

“Don’t encourage her.”

“I’m not. Encouraging her would be to tell her that your password is ilovestevero-”

“Don’t.”

Darcy mimes zipping her lips shut, smiling, and Coulson redirects his attention back to Sofie, “By protocol, I can’t endorse hacking, no less against us. However, something good came out of it.”

“Wait, so you’re effectively fine with my piggybacking your entire investigation?”

“At this point, we’re grateful for a solution,” he admits.

“In that case, is it possible to use your tech?”

“If it gets rid of him.”

Speak of the devil, Loki passes by, stopping when he spots them. He eyes them all over like a chessboard, before settling on her, eyes narrowed slightly but faltering when she dares to stare back. Neither stands down. His glare carries a trace of hesitant suspicion, coloured by slight nerves, that speaks the volumes he won’t. A quiet rage sparks, which irritates her, urging her to her feet, and over to face him. He crosses his arms, sparing her a lazy glance.

“You were staring at me like you wanted to say something. Well?”

“Did you plan for this?”

She shrugs, “I saw the Bifrost, and I went after it. I thought they could help you.”

“Am I meant to believe you?” He sneers. In that moment, any possible composure vanishes.

“I would never lie about that!” She snaps. Their eyes meet and the damage is clear, the truth even more so. Loki seems to soften, surprising her, but she forces herself to continue, “And I’d never lie to you! I just had a secret – everyone does – but even  _you_  could understand why.”

“Then why mention it?”

“It was on my mind,” she mumbles, “I couldn’t stop it.”

“Were that your only motive, the matter would be over. But there’s something else.”

“Fine, I felt bad about keeping a secret from everyone else, and I wanted an end to it. But he wanted to know who you were. I didn’t tell him.”

“Why not?”

“Why should I have?” She retorts, “I don’t owe him anything, no less you. If I had, he’d have thought I was insane. Why would you care anyway?”

Her accusation urges him to answer, “I-”

“Is he bothering you?” Darcy asks, poking her head through a crack in the door.

“I’m fine.”

“Good.” Her attention turns to Loki, and her tone freezes over, “You should come in. You’ll want to see this.”

Despite himself, he walks through, and stares at Coulson.

“Surprised?”

“Not at all,” Loki mutters, leaning against the door, “What did you want of me?”

“I found a way to get back,” Sofie brags, drawing his attention.

“You yourself told me that return was impossible.”

“That was before I finished that,” she points to the theory, still tacked to the board, “I imagine that, if it’s successful, then the same method can be used, with the actual Tesseract, to restore inter-dimensional travel, and therefore stabilise space-time.”

“I doubt Odin would allow it,” Loki dismisses, “And, even if you could convince the All Father, would it even pay off at all?”

“True, it’s untested, but could work,” Jane reasons, voice scraping at his nerves.

“But, bear in mind, none of us are in the position to make promises,” Selvig interrupts, “The emphasis is on ‘untested’ – no matter the potential, it can go very wrong.”

“Then why bother?”

“It has potential,” Jane echoes.

 _Sentimental fool_ , he thinks, keeping the possibility of return at the back of his mind. “Perfect.”

 

Sofie tightens the last screw and steps back, admiring her handiwork – a haphazard amalgamation of new and old, the product of hours’ work, comprised of weapons from one war and the remnants of another, pointed towards the darkening sky and placed at the heart of the impression left by his entry. A tail of wires stretches out from Sofie’s beat-up laptop, resting a rickety fold-out table, that connects the two together.

“Alright, for this to be safe I need everyone not directly involved to stand back a couple of metres,” she commands. When Loki and Thor remain, a few paces from her, she motions for them to step back, “I can’t risk you two being spliced between dimensions.”

They move and she stands at the console, with Foster and Selvig supervising her as she types. Her fingers race over the keys, hurrying masses of code into the system, and his pulse keeps their time, silently willing her to succeed where elsewhere she has failed, to pay off for once, to prove her worth – or else it is all for naught, and he is trapped. With one swift move, she slams ‘Enter’. The device seems to work at first: the sky begins to burst with colour, the wind howls around them, and what they’ve gathered of Tesseract energy glows, rattling within its’ glass container. Then the laptop begins to short-circuit, sparking, and then catches fire.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Sofie exclaims, trying to rescue the laptop, as Tove runs forward and pulls her away, and Darcy intervenes with a fire extinguisher. The air stinks of burnt hardware, and a tense silence falls as everyone quietly accepts that they’ve failed, as it dawns on Thor and Loki that, without the say-so of Asgard, they might never return.

“What happened?” Thor asks, as Selvig begins to take the charred laptop apart, and sifts through the remains.

“It’s mostly a hardware problem,” He explains, holding up the smouldered hard-drive for Sofie to see, “You might be able to salvage this.”

“I have backups,” she mumbles, slumping down with her head in her hands, “I just wish…”

“Hey, it’s OK,” Jane reassures her. “These things happen in the beginning. We can always try again.”

“But I failed.”

“Not really-”

“You did.” Loki cuts in.

Ida steps in, “Now’s not the time-”

“Be quiet.”

“Make me!”

“This is none of your business.”

“You’ve no right to blame her.”

“On the contrary, I’ve every justification to, for  _I_  didn’t tamper with forces beyond my control.”

“You did,” Selvig corrects.

“The circumstances were different.”

“Still no excuse,” she determines.

“Ah, were I willing to be lectured upon excuses, I’d wish for one as well-versed in them as you are. What possible excuse could you conjure now, now that they’ve failed, as it all falls back on you? You, who made as many as she could to satiate others?”

“Says the liar,” she counters.

He smirks, on the verge of laughing at her flimsy attempt to bail out a sinking ship, “Say whatever you still can, but you  _are_  to blame. You took the task upon yourself, even when there was no need, and then dare to act as if my fault is mine. But, worst of all, you made me vulnerable for no good reason. Therefore, know this: whatever motive you might have had, innocent or devious, was pointless, because none of what has happened matters anymore.”

His pulse races in his head. She dares to stare him down, millimetres from his face, as he pants. He can almost feel how tense she is, how tense they both are. Unable to stand their presence any longer, he walks out.

“Where are you going?” Thor bellows after him.

 ** _“OUT!_** ” 

Thor starts to follow, but soon loses him in the messy, regenerating network of corridors, as agents rush past him, slipping deeper into the labyrinth with each step. But soon, and after barely a few paces, he finds Loki sat in the corner of an empty room, oblivious to the world around him. Thor enters, searching for something to say.

“That was rather… heated.”

“Don’t mock me,” he growls, glaring at Thor.

“I was merely observing-”

“Keep your observations to yourself and leave me be.” Thor hesitates, before sitting parallel to Loki, back against the wall. “Are you deaf or simply stupid?”

“You can not give up faith now.”

“I can, I will… and I have.”

“Why?”

“You idiot, are you blind as well?” He mocks, anger building within him, “It is clear that, as much as I may fool myself, I do not belong there. I never have, yet I would neither wish to belong in Jotunheim nor Midgard. There is nowhere for me.”

“You belong with your family,” Thor asserts, “in Asgard, for you cannot deny it.”

“Leave me be.” Loki commands.

“We will return soon,” Thor pledges as he leaves. Loki can’t quite believe Thor, for he knows is beyond hope now, but deep down, a hopeful, irrepressible voice calls out from the back of his mind, telling him to that this is not the end.  _You will return_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cookies to those of you who get the ABBA references.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: death.

He wakes up on the cold floor, thoroughly bewildered as to when he came here and fell asleep.  Across from him, Tove snores peacefully in a swivel chair, her legs crossed in front of her and feet  resting on a desk, with Sofie cuddled up to her awkwardly in the same chair. On the desk is Ida, with her back to everything, and Darcy, her crossed arms in front of her, brushing against Ida’s head. As he stands up, Darcy turns her head.

“I didn’t see you come in.”

“You were all sleeping,” he recalls, half-remembering how he strolled through a near abandoned base, achingly bright even at midnight, and ended up back in this room. “Where’s Thor?”

“With Jane,” Darcy explains, sitting up, “they went off and left me as baby-sitter, to have some ‘alone time’-”

“Don’t,” he growls.

“Not a morning person?”

“I’m not an anything person.”

“In other news, water is wet.”

Ida slowly gets up, leaning on her bad arm, and faces them, asking Loki, “What are you doing here?”

He ignores her and she turns away, as Darcy scowls at him, seizes his arm, and drags him out into the corridor.

“Look, I get it: you’re an asshole. But, from I understand, she saved your ass, so you could at least try to be nicer to her.”

“Has it occurred to you that my hatred might be perfectly rational?”

“Hate isn’t rational. Disliking her would be if you have a decent, valid reason, but you don’t. Loki, she’s still a kid.” Her tone becomes gentler, “Kids screw up sometimes. A lot, actually.”

“Do you know what the worst of it all is?”

“Yeah, she was nice to you, the worst thing anyone can do.”

“I’m not certain ‘nice’ is how you could define it-”

“Could you just listen to me?” She snaps, “I get it: sometimes she got mad at you, and I don’t blame her, but she asked for you not to be imprisoned. Bear that in mind.”

“Hmph,” he sulks.

“You’d be good looking if you didn’t scowl so much.” She turns her back on him and walks back in. After a moment, he follows, but stops to lean against the wall, as she saunters over and sits back down. At that instant, Tove sits up and wakes Sofie, who sits up, with her head in her hands.

“Hey, why the long face?” Darcy asks.

“I’m just tired,” Sofie mutters. “Um, do I have to try again today?”

“Probably; scientists have stubbornness issues.”

“But I don’t want to fail again.”

“Hey, I’ve got an idea: sneak out of here.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re depressing, so come back when you’re not.”

“Need I remind you, getting in was hardly successful,” Loki says.

“Because you didn’t have this,” Darcy holds up her right hand, revealing a plastic ID badge sandwiched between her fingers.

“Wouldn’t we have to look like you?” Sofie asks.

“Nope, just walk out and then walk back in later, and I’ll cover for you. But be back like, soon-ish – there’s a limit to how much trouble S.H.I.E.L.D lets you get into.”

“How do you know?”

“Hey, I didn’t do anything,” she lies. Tove takes the card and thanks Darcy, then struts out and down the corridor, the other two following.

“You don’t really want to stay cooped up in here, do you?” He refuses to answer. “You know they’re not so bad.”

“You only say that because you sympathise with them.”

She shrugs, “Look at it like this: it’s them or us, and ‘us’ means watching Jane and Thor-”

He strolls out, slamming the door behind him, as Darcy sits back with a contented smirk. He catches up with them half-way down the corridor and follows them out of the complex, undetected, “What’s the plan?”

“We’re going to the seaside!” Tove trills, “Well, it’s not…”

“She’s throwing herself in the sea,” Sofie explains.

“Why?”

“It’ll be fun!”

“You won’t be saying that when you’ve got hypothermia.” Sofie counters.

“Then I’ll drag you two spoilsports in with me,” Tove jokes, throwing her arms around the girls, “And there we’ll all be, freezing cold and sick together.”

 

Seagulls call out above his head, circling like vultures, as he follows the girls through the teeming streets of a different town, almost a copy of the others surrounding it, and searches the crowds every so often for anyone who might be watching him. They walk until the town centre fades out into the coast and, at the edge of an abandoned, rickety pier, with pebble-dashed shores either side of them, they stand, staring into murky dark blue water, as the wind shakes the old, creaking wood beneath their feet. Amidst the dawn mist, fishing boats venture out to sea.

“Well, in I go,” Tove says, pulling off her shirt. Sofie rolls her eyes, “Oh, don’t act like you don’t like what you see.”

“You’re going to get a cold.”

“YOL-”

“No.”

Tove shrugs it off, removes the rest of her clothes, and stands at the very edge of the pier with her back to them, arms outstretched like a bird’s wings. She then jumps in, splashing cold sea water over their feet. Loki decides to join in, stripping down to his underpants then diving in.

“I d-didn’t think you’d k-know how t-to swim.” Tove tells him, her teeth chattering, when he resurfaces, “T-that is,  _w-with_  l-legs.”

“OK, that’s enough; get out now before you both freeze to death,” Sofie commands, dumping her bag on the pier.

“He w-won’t,” Tove jokes with a nod, for which he splashes her. “Besides, it’s n-not even t-that cold.”

“Ugh, you’re such a child.”

“Hey, you d-don’t have anything in your pockets, d-do you?”

“No. Wait, wh-” Tove pulls Sofie back by her legs and into the cold water, producing a cacophony of frantic splashing and shrieking. Within seconds, Sofie scrambles back onto dry land, and Tove sidles up to her, laughing. Ida starts to walk off, mumbling, “Be back in a minute,” as she leaves.

Tove’s smile disappears and she begins to speak, but he dives beneath the waves before she does, closes his eyes, and disappears into his head. The waves block them out, but not a building rumble, that gets closer and closer, but suddenly, at its’ loudest, disappears. A moment later, a massive boom blasts through his concentration, forcing him to open his eyes, as an unidentified collection of shadows billow through the dark water. As he focuses, he picks out glints of copper shining through, before they swim to the surface.

He resurfaces and notices a soaked Ida, in only her shirt and underpants, sat next to Tove and Sofie. Behind them, lining the pier, are the rest of her clothes. She looks over to him, blushing, then gets to her feet and collects her clothing, tying her hair up as she goes. He climbs out and sits on the pier, with his back to the rest of them. Ida throws the towel at his head and he dries himself off before dressing, as she does the same and then sits beside the other two. The girls regress to talking amongst themselves.

Bored, he wanders out onto the ‘beach’, wincing at the uncomfortable feel of pebbles digging through his shoes and into the soles of his feet, and bends to pick one up. He tosses it between his hands, brushing his fingers over its’ flat surface, as smooth as a blade, and briefly recalls his time as a warrior, armed with knives as thin as this. He throws it with all his might, skimming it across the murky water thrice before it loses momentum and sinks. He does it again and again, amusing himself, until she walks up to him and attempts the same, almost twice as much as him. Each throw sinks.

“Here,” he offers, handing her a new stone, “Stand side on.”

She does and, stood against her back, he takes her throwing hand in his, “Hold it flat, and relax your shoulders, but stay rooted to the spot. Put all your strength in your throwing arm… and throw.”

He lets her hand go and she throws, and it skims twice.

“How do you know how to do that?”

“The only fighting I could ever do well was knife-throwing, but I  _was_  good at it. The idea is the same,” he demonstrates it again, perfectly, “only the instrument is different.”

She says nothing, and only nods, but he feels as if she understands. She repeats the action again, and again, getting better with each attempt, and pocketing a stone every time she reaches for another.

“Angrier,” he suggests. She grips the pebble tight in her hand and flings it with so much force that she trips, falling to her knees. It smashes the water’s surface, splashing them both.

“Maybe a bit less,” he murmurs, wiping his face, as she stands.

“No, it was fine. Just needs control, like this.”

She picks up another, remembers his advice, and throws. It skims four times before sinking. “See?”

“Ida!” Sofie calls, “We’re going back now!”

She begins to walk off as he approaches the water’s edge. His hand dives in and, in one swift move, he splashes her, eliciting a high pitched yelp as cold water streams down her back. She faces him, scowling. He beams.

“You little shit,” she mutters, breaking out a smile. She kicks the waves back into his face, splashing him weakly, and he laughs.

“Admirable.”

“Now you’re just asking for it.” She reaches down and splashes him again, soaking him this time, then, as he begins to run, she chases him. Laughter bubbles unbidden from his mouth, for the first time in forever, and hers join his, so happy and so foreign to his ears that he almost stops. In that split second, she hugs him from behind and they tumble to the ground, out of breath, her landing atop him. He looks up at her, triumphant, and grins.

“Gotcha,” she gloats, smiling back at him.

He chuckles, leaning up on his elbows. “Have we not been here before?”

“Used to it yet?”

“I can be persuaded to be.” He sits up, closer to her, and tucks a loose strand of hair beneath her ear. His hand travels to under her chin as he stares at her, wordlessly asking permission. At any second, he expects that she could freeze, or run, or shy away from him.

But instead she edges back, frowning at him.

“Don’t treat me like I’m porcelain,” she objects. “I’m not delicate.”

“Certainly not.” He smiles, “Do you trust me?”

“This is me trusting you.” With that, he inches up to her, their lips brushing, then closes his eyes.

 “Come on!” Tove shouts. He stops, and she then stands and follows them. He begins to trail after the trio, eventually catching up. They walk around the outskirts of the town, and along the side of the road, ambling through sprawling dead fields until they begin to look vaguely familiar. A kilometre or two from the base, he notices someone stood in front of them – a familiar, tall young man with cold, decisive eyes, and his hands in his pockets. A smug grin masks the anger in his voice.

“ _Hun var min_ ,” he tells him, daring to look Loki in the eye.

“ _Jeg vil hellere dø!_ ” She roars back, stepping forward. Loki instinctively pulls her back by her hand. Her head whips around to face him, and she glares at him, but he holds firm. In front of them, the boy scowls. Loki clasps her hand tighter. Though it might suit her to be triumphant, that moment will come. As of right now, he has no desire to lose her to such a lowlife. Ida understands and then relents, her fingers entwining with his own.

“ _Lad os være, Mikkel_ ,” Tove says, approaching him.

“ _Det er for sent til at forsvare henne, vel?_ ”

She punches him in the jaw and kicks him in the crotch. He plummets to the ground, writhing around in the dirt.

“ _Føles det som for sent?_ ” His response is little more than an incoherent squeak. The girls walk away. Loki remains, having spotted that idiot’s satisfied smirk re-emerge. Despite himself, he marches forward, seizes Mikkel’s collar, and wrenches him from the ground, bringing him eyelevel.

“Do you know who I am?” Mikkel glares at him.

“Some English pervert who preys on teenaged girls?”

“Wrong.”

“Scottish?”

“I am Loki.”

With just three words, the boy’s eyes widen and he trembles, “I-I didn’t m-mean it-”

“No, you did. But I feel like a merciful God, so I’ll offer you one chance: run away and never again bother her. Otherwise, your head is mine. Understand?”

Strangely, Mikkel’s fear dissipates, replaced by a brief sneer, “Do you really think she’s worth the fight?”

“Clea-”

“Put him down.” Ida commands.  Both stare at her, stood behind Loki, in differing states of disbelief. “Put him down and leave it.”

“Yeah, do what she says!” Mikkel suggests. Loki tightens his grip. Ida steps closer to him and places a hand on his shoulder, on the verge on saying something, and he looks to her. In that moment, he feels a sudden stabbing pain in his abdomen, and looks down.

A fresh blood stain blossoms from his side, staining Mikkel’s shuddering hands as he clutches the knife handle, knuckles snow white, the knife still twisted into Loki’s stomach. A gargle passes Loki’s lips as he chokes on the taste of blood. Then Mikkel yanks the blade out and sprints away, as the pain ignites, consuming the initial adrenaline-heavy numbness, and overwhelming him, forcing him to his knees. Ida catches him and gradually lowers him down into a sitting position, knelt beside him. She gingerly peels back his shirt to get a better look then turns away, the colour drained from her face, and covers the wound back up as he endures the discomfort.

She turns to the other two, “Get help now.”

They run off toward the base. She slips her coat and hoodie off, balls the hoodie up then presses it to his injury, guiding one of his bloodied hands to hold it in place.

“OK, just keep that on there and it won’t be long and…” She starts to tear up, then snaps, “You picked  _now_  to be the hero?!”

“Oh, allow me this one last thing,” he says, exasperation infiltrating his tone, “Allow yourself this.”

“That’s it.” She lifts his free arm over her shoulder and helps him onto his feet.

“What was the point of that, to prolong my suffering?!”

“I’m taking you back to S.H.I.E.L.D. They’ll know what to do.”

“But you know there’s no need.”

Her only response is to command: “Just keep your eyes open.”

They half-stumble onwards, Loki’s condition degenerating with each step. Barely a couple of metres away, Loki manages to lift his head just in time to see Thor running toward them. In spite of everything, he smiles one last time.

“What happened?” Thor demands, as Loki moves from her to him, landing in Thor’s arms the instant he trips.

“I-it was someone I know, and-and-I’m so, so sorry, I-”

They leave her behind, as Thor helps Loki along.

 “Worry not, brother-”

“We know what happens now.”

“Not yet-”

“You’ve done enough.” Loki anchors a shaky hand on Thor’s shoulder and looks him in the eye, “I’m naught but a man. But, although I would regret this were I to live, I ask that you…. Forgive me.”

With one final, trembling breath, he collapses against Thor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: I told my friend I'd written this and her reaction made me fear for my life. So, um... come at me bro?


	17. Chapter 17

She turns around and starts to walk away, never looking back. No-one, and no thing, holds her back. As soon as she did, everything that had mattered froze over. Strolling toward his front lawn, she picks up a stone from her pocket, smoothing her thumb over its’ surface, as she recalls his advice, and his intention. With that, her rage swells beyond breaking point, her grip tightens, and she throws the pebble so hard her arm aches, and the force sends her tumbling to her knees.

It smashes the front window and shards of glass fall like snowflakes, so beautiful that she smiles to herself. A few moments later, Mikkel runs out front. He almost doesn’t recognise the vengeful, grieving stranger stood resolute at the foot of the front path. Then he gets it.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

With another, she shatters his bedroom window.

“Are you trying to ruin my life?” She glares at him. He halts, paralyzed on the front path, as she walks up to him, punches him in the stomach, and then grabs his shoulder, dragging him along until she finally slams his back into the front wall. Her left forearm forces his neck into the concrete, crushing his windpipe. “You raped me, bullied and humiliated me, and you murdered someone I loved, and I’ve ruined your life?”

“But he was never yours, wasn’t he?” He reasons calmly, shocking her. He laughs. “He was way older and… wasn’t he married? With kids? Wow, everyone was right about you: you  _are_  a slut. But my favourite bit has to be this: you actually loved him! Oh my God, you’re something. When someone likes you, you’re too good for them-”

She yanks him from the wall and throws him onto the ground, like her plaything. As she approaches, he sits up, with both hands held up in surrender. She stops only inches away from him.

“Hey, hey, just think for a second: maybe, if you hadn’t said no, none of this would have happened.”

She punches him in the face. He falls back with his hands over his nose, groaning, and she jerks away. Her hand aches, as a throbbing pain burns at her knuckles. His groans turn to laughter.

“Try harder.” He smirks. Blood catches in his teeth. “You know you want to.”

Her foot breaks that grin in two. It smashes the perfect straight line of his nose, rips bloodied skin from the walls of his cheek, chin and forehead; and wages on, as if intent on leaving him in ruins. Her fury relocates its focus to his gut, his legs and eventually makes landfall on his entire torso, painting him black and blue with relentless blows.

“Stop it!” he starts to plead, spitting blood, “Ida, stop it! I’m sorry! Please, stop!”

Her foot smacks his stomach, winding him, and he coughs blood onto the pavement. He tries to sit up, or even to stand, but gives up, falling onto the gravel. But, even then, the kicks and punches rain down, uncontrolled, imposing new bruises onto older ones.

“Ida!” Sofie barks. Ida stops and edges around to face her friend. Behind them stands Tove, horrified, and Darcy, with her taser readied.

“Look at yourself!” Sofie scolds, bringing Ida her back to her senses. Then she turns to Mikkel again. He flinches away from her.

“Never come near me again, understand?” She demands. Tove jogs up behind her and puts a hand on Ida’s arms, pulling her back a little.   
“Come on, let’s go,” she encourages, softer, friendlier. Ida stays rooted to the spot.

“Understand?” He starts to nod. “Say it!”

“I understand!” he squeals, cowering, as tears falls. He shields his face in his hands and curls up into himself. “I’m sorry, so sorry-”

“I don’t care.”

She turns away and storms past the others. Darcy puts her taser away as the girls run after Ida.

“Are you ok?” Tove asks. Ida doesn’t respond. “Ida? Hello?

”What the hell were you thinking?” Sofie shouts, “Are you even listening to me? Ida? Oh, for fuck’s sake-”

“Why shouldn’t I have done that?” She retorts, not facing them. “He deserved it! The law wouldn’t have listened to me, so teaching that asshole a lesson was my only option. He won’t beat me again! I will not be weak, not again!”

“That  _was_  weak!”

“If you were really my friend, you’d see it my way.”

“But I don’t, because I am your friend.”

“Sentimental idiot.”

“It won’t bring him back!”

Ida freezes. Stood there, all her fight melts away and leaves her nauseated, choking on silence. Her skin burns, fists unravel, and she can finally feel herself shivering.  _You’re pathetic_ , a voice in her head growls.  _A weak, pathetic slut_ -

She turns to Sofie, and demands, “He can come back, can’t he? In that world, people re-spawn like in a video game. So, what if he does?”

“He was still mortal, still had to prove him worthy, so....” Sofie winces, dragging a hand through her hair, “He’s gone.”

“You’ve been wrong before.”

“In the real world, death is death.”

Ida stands there, with no words left, letting it sink in. Tove approaches and wraps her arms around her, as Ida starts to sob.

 

Once back, Sofie and Tove head back to Jane and Erik, and Darcy leads Ida to a tiny side room that vaguely resembles some sort of surgery. She heads towards a collection of metallic shelves surrounding a sink, to Ida’s right. On her left, a gurney, the mattress atop it covered with a rough-looking, dirty-white sheet speckled with flecks of faded blood.

“Sit.” Darcy instructs and, as Ida sits up on the gurney, Darcy begins to dig through draws and boxes, slaps the tap lever up so that water gushes from the faucet, and slams down each item she needs down on the silver work-top.

“You’re mad at me,” Ida notes.

“You think?” Darcy snaps, spinning around. “You scared the crap out of me!” Ida stutters, and eventually looks away. “I didn’t think you had that in you.”

“I’d hoped so.”

“I shouldn’t act as if what you did was fine, or that he deserved it, but… it was a little impressive.”

“My hand doesn’t seem to think so,” Ida admits.

“I noticed.” She pulls a chair in front of Ida, placing a bowl of water in the space between them and bandages on the mattress beside Ida, who holds her hand out. Darcy takes it and begins to put it in plaster.

“Why are you helping me?”

“I’m not allowed to let you out of my sight, and you have to explain something to us,” Ida backs away, “when you’re ready.”

Darcy winds a turquoise bandage around the casted wrist a couple of times, before finally pressing it tightly in place.

 “Keep it elevated above the heart, but don’t touch it for a while,” she instructs, getting up to clean, “And, when you get home, go to the doctors. That’ll have to be temporary.”

 “Thank you. I have to talk now, don’t I?”

“Only if you want,” she answers, leaning against the countertop. “Can we begin, or should I wait?”

“Go ahead.”

“One: you fell for him. Two: he used you.”

“And you think I’d just let him?” She shakes her head, “At first, we used each other. For him, he did it because he enjoyed it. I did so that someone might look at me as if I wasn’t tainted. But then, I realised he was looking at the idea of me.”

“Which is why you told him?”

She nods, “No matter who they are, the person you love deserves honesty.”

“Are you a teenager or a fortune cookie?”

Ida almost laughs, “But it wasn’t just that. I’ve never wanted to know who I am as much as with him, you know what I mean?”

“But you’re not your past.”

“Now who’s the fortune cookie?” She jokes.

Darcy chuckles and then, much more seriously, she adds, “But you must have thought he was lying to you?”

“It was always at the back of my mind. But – and this will sound so clichéd – I knew he wasn’t. He did start that way, but then he seemed to give in, and became… honest – almost innocent – and natural, which was sort-of how I knew; nothing about him, or me for that matter, was totally natural at that point. We’d made masks, for our own motives, but then it changed.” She looks up, remembering that Darcy’s still there, “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Hey, that’s fine. Don’t give in to the patriarchal belief that love is stupid.”

“I don’t plan on it,” she promises. “You know, you’re quite relaxed about this.”

Darcy shrugs, “I can’t act as if an eighteen year old can’t make her own choices.”

“Even when she’s wrong?”

“But not all of them were wrong.” She pauses, brow furrowed, before adding, “OK, I am definitely the fortune cookie.”

Ida smiles, “So, I answered your questions – now what?”

“Well, with them, you never know how much time you have to kill,” she answers, “so… you could ask me something, if you want?”

Although hesitant, she asks, “How’s Thor coping?”

Darcy sighs, “He’s not. The first stages of decomposition are a rough ride for anyone but, for a brother, it must have been… unbearable. At first, he was mad but now, I think he’s just trying to adjust. He’s sat in the same room as the body, waiting to go home.”

“But they can’t. It doesn’t work.”

“You just haven’t tried again – and again and again and again…. But, when they’ll go home, then you three can go, and I’ll have to prepare for a shitload of slack from nearly all of my superiors. It’ll all work out eventually. I hope.”

“I should be answering for this. It was my fault, after all. I should never have said no.”

“Hey, look at me,” Darcy urges, approaching her. “This is not your fault, and you can say no as much as you want. Scream it, shout it, mean with everything you have, and never stop.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You remind me of so many people, and I will not see anyone else go the same way they have,” Darcy explains. After a moment, she asks, “When you go home, what happens to you?”

“Someone might be home, but either way I go to bed, try to cope, fail and then see if I can get out of bed in the morning. Then I try to forget.”

“Will you?”

“I did sort-of guess that I’d figure it out sooner or later, but not this way, so… I don’t know.”

“You deserve a goodbye.”

“No, I don’t. I’m a hiccup in their timeline, which snowballed. I… I don’t deserve anything.”

“Yes, you do,” she reassures her. “Look, I’m still dubious about what you saw, but only because I can’t imagine it. I saw something different: two people who loved each other enough to call out the other’s bullshit. You mattered, you loved this guy, and, if you don’t get the closure you need, it’ll mess you up – and I like you way too much for that.”

“People don’t always get what they deserve.”

“Fuck that noise.”

Ida smiles, and then stands. Darcy leads her out of the room, to the tiny side-room, serving as a morgue, where the body is kept. Thor sits cross-legged and straight-backed against the glass wall, his head held high so as to be forced to look. He keeps an undisturbed, perpetual vigil over Loki, whose remains lie on a metallic slab in the centre, covered up to the collarbones by a white sheet. Someone has taken the time to close his eyes.

“We wanted to cover him up fully, but Thor wouldn’t let us,” Darcy explains. “You ready?”

Ida nods. Stepping through, she expects the stink of death to hit her like a tidal wave, but instead barely picks up the slightest hint. But the cold bites into her instantly. When they enter, Thor stands. He glances at her, with the slightest touch of a scowl.

“What do you want?”

“I was wondering if I could say goodbye.”

Thor nods, his bear-like shoulders sinking, and Darcy leaves.

“You were not there. You have not seen what I have, not today nor in the days beforehand. You have never been there. Yet you ask to bid farewell as if you have a right to.”

“I only want to say goodbye. All I need is a minute or two, and I’ll be gone. It’ll be like it was before.”

“Why?”

“You know I loved him and if I don’t let it go, it’ll stay and fester, and no love is any good like that.”

He wipes his eyes, studying her as she inches forward. What harm is there left for her to cause?

“When I return, you will leave. Do you understand?” She nods. Then, without acknowledging her again, he leaves her alone with Loki. No, not Loki; only his gradually decaying corpse. At this point, the obvious is clear: his skin slowly purples; his eyes are shut, his fingers tinged with blue, and his white lips encrusted with dry blood. That said, this is all for her own good.

She ventures to his side, laying her hand flat directly above his heart, and closes her eyes, still hoping it’ll beat. Nothing happens. Opening her mouth to speak, despite all the words or actions in her head, she only manages three.

“ _Jeg elsker dig_.”

She leans down and kisses his forehead, hand tightening into a fist, before forcing herself to stand tall again. Just as she turns to leave, the door opens and Thor steps through, prompting her to look down at her shuffling feet.

“I should go,” she mumbles, cheeks reddening, as she approaches the door. He stops her, placing his hands on her shoulders, and she jerks away from him.

“I meant not to startle you,” he begins, arms falling to his sides. “Before, I was unfair to you. I now only wish to thank you for the kindness you had shown my brother.”

“I really should go,” she insists. “I should leave you alone.”

“Do not blame yourself,” he tells her, letting her walk on. If she heard him, she makes no sign of it.


	18. Chapter 18

The dead man’s heart beats.

At first, only once, and weakly. But then again, and again, and louder and louder, as if screaming, until fresh blood, having dried, races relentlessly through his veins once more.

He breathes again, gulping back mouthfuls of icy air. Feeling returns to his hands, fingers, arms, legs, feet, and toes, and eventually to the rest of his body.

Finally, he opens his eyes. His head lolls onto his left, towards Thor. Thor’s heavy brow crumples, his mouth edges open, and, bemused, he squints at Loki.

“Brother?” He asks, his voice soft and tentative.

“What happened?” Loki rasps.

“You died-”

“I know, I know,” he snaps, pushing himself upright. As he swings his legs from the slab, he becomes aware of his own nakedness on the cold metal. Intrigued, he runs his fingertips over his lips, over suddenly smooth, scar less skin. Glancing down at his hands, torso and legs, the evidence of his months of torture have vanished, wiped away.

Thor bounds over to him and embraces him, and Loki shoves him back.

“What happened after?” Thor just smirks, glancing to the door. “What is it? What?”

“Do you remember none of it?”

“Of course not, I was dead. What are you talking about?”

Thor claps a hand on Loki’s shoulder, grinning, “I believe there’s someone here who’ll wish to see you.”

“She is still here?”

“They cannot leave until we do,” Thor answers. “But it is late. Perhaps they were permitted to go.”

He turns and, as soon as his back is turned, Loki stares at his forearm. Within that moment, a freezing cold current sprints up his arm as it turns from white to blue, and as archaic markings rise up from his skin. Thor’s shoulder begins to move and Loki wills his arm back to normal.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“Allow me a moment,” he demands. He summons clothing upon his person. His fingers tingle with the after effects of sorcery, like pins and needles; something he hasn’t felt since his youth, when he first learnt the craft from his mother. _Magic is a muscle_ , he remembers. _One you must grow used to using._

Loki gets to his feet and follows Thor out of the room, then along the corridors. Out of a passing window, he spots the pitch-black sky. When Thor stops, in front of the room from earlier, Loki halts beside him and looks through the glass. Darcy watches as Sofie tries yet again and in vain to get that contraption to work, with Drs Selvig and Foster supervising her. Sat on an empty desk are Ida and Tove, asleep and hand in hand, with their heads resting together. He notices Ida’s free hand, in plaster. Loki walks through, with Thor behind him.

Sofie stands there, gawking at him, as Darcy and Selvig rolls their eyes simultaneously, now used to the brothers’ tendency for flirting with death. Tove nudges Ida awake, untangling her hand from Ida’s.

Ida jolts up, glances around sleepily, and then notices him. She hops down from the desk and approaches him, “ _Jeg drømmer, ikke sandt?_ ”

 _I’m dreaming, aren’t I?_ A false, irrepressible smile emerges. He picks up the almost hysterical laughter in her voice.

“ _Nej, det er faktisk mig_ ,” he corrects, before noticing. She spots it instantly. The maddened grin dissolves and, as her shoulders cave in, arms fall and breath catches, she seems to shatter. Then she screws her eyes shut, cackles quietly, and shakes her head. Her undamaged hand becomes a fist. He gingerly reaches for it but, as his fingertips brush her knuckles, she smacks him away.

"It is me," he insists. She shakes her head even more. "I promis-"

"No, you don't!" She snaps. "You don't promise anything, you don't speak Danish, you don't do anything - you're dead!"

With a shaky sigh, she calms herself down and adds, matter-of-fact, “You’re a figment of my very distressed imagination. So I’m going to close my eyes and, when I open them, you’ll be gone.”

She does as promised and, when she opens her eyes, only Thor stares back at her.

“I knew it.”

“Always so certain,” Loki says, from behind her.

She stands rooted to the spot, almost paralyzed, until a relieved smile emerges, “I should have known you’d do that.”

“You _did_ ask.”

She turns to face him again, lost for words. A joyful smile, so wide the skin around her eyes crinkles, spreads from ear to ear. In that instant, he falls all over again. She’d make great conquerors jealous, and his enemies would beg her for secrets she’d never reveal. He quickly skims through the company around them, knowing they’d never exploit this one weakness. But not for his sake. If anything, they prefer her and care more about her, and so, to them at least, he is the biggest threat. As long as they believe that, he’s safe. And so is she.

“You’re real,” she sighs, her voice stretched out to a thin, almost weak, whisper.

Then she hugs him, her good arm curling around his neck, with enough strength to almost bring him down. Nervous little giggles flutter around his ears, both his own and hers, and a fleeting kiss skips over his cheek, as she burrows her head in his shoulder and he bundles her into his arms, holding her tight, hiding his face in her neck. She grips his back with one hand, and for that reason, he presses her closer to him and forgets everyone else in the room. There is nothing to lose or gain from her, nor is there any scheme or plan anymore, and to pretend otherwise is a fool’s errand, a waste of time. _Admit it, you fool: you love her._

As he moves his head up to speak, nudging her nose with his, he notices her staring at his lips, as if all she wants is to kiss him.

“There _are_ people around,” he warns jokingly. But she draws him closer, on her tiptoes, and brings his lips to hers. He melts, eyes closing, unable to stifle an involuntary moan, as her soft lips finally glide against his own. Everything else fades out and he wills himself to remember only her: her hand on his cheek, her heartbeat thumping through her clothes, the cast against his chest, her warmth. Their lips overlap as he kisses her back greedily, unable to resist. And, when she pulls back, their foreheads press against each other and they share breaths. And he whispers to her something so quietly only she hears it, something that he'll only ever say to her, and that he'd thought he'd never say to anyone.

She looks up at him through half-lidded eyes, cheeks flushed as red as her hair and, despite every possible thing to say, laughs. Though it piques his concern, he relaxes, for the sheer sound of it fills the air with joy, and knows that she carries no mocking, no hatred, no worries, nothing but happiness. She’s happy, overjoyed, and he cannot help but smile with her, planting a peck on her jaw.

Then it occurs to him. “What happened your hand?”

“By-product,” she admits, shrugging. “You should have seen his face.”

“I can only imagine.” For a moment, he envisions the cad cowering and bloodied and her stood over him, victorious, and smirks. It truly suits her.

The ground suddenly shudders and he clutches her even closer to him. As they exchanged confused looks, everyone hurries outside, and they eventually follow. The group watch as grey clouds swarm around a cut opening up in the night sky. The Bifrost, finally. He observes her as she marvels at it, then takes her hand. She looks at him and, after briefly hesitating, smiles, nodding up to the sky.

“That’s never happened to me before, in case you’re wondering.”

Grinning, he says, “If I’d known earlier that such would happen…”

“It wouldn’t have,” she tells him. “But there’d be no harm in trying.”

“Brother, we must go,” Thor urges. Loki growls, but she steps back.

“You have to. You want to. Go on,” she encourages, her voice warm, sweet and soft. “Go.”

“If this must be goodbye, then take care of yourself.”

“I do,” she retorts. “Take care of _your_ self.”

“I’ll have to,” he tells her. “If I am to have any hope of returning to you.”

Her nose crinkles, “I doubt you’ll do that.”

“What if I did?” He dares.

“Then you’d have to find me.”

“But of course.” He takes her hand once more, pressing her knuckles to his lips, and then softly promises, “I _will_ find you again.”

“And so, until then, goodbye,” she whispers back, her hand slipping from his. She walks over and stands beside Tove, as he positions himself aside Thor at the centre of the Bifrost. Their backs face the others. In an instant, they’re gone.

The dying wind howls in her ears as she stares at the calming sky. Tove places her hand on Ida’s shoulder, bringing her back.

“You ok?”

“Yeah,” she mutters.

“Yep, I do.”

“Can we go now?” Sofie whines.

“Will you reveal any of this to anyone?” Coulson asks.

“Nope!” The trio chorus.

Sofie adds, “Will you?”

“What?”

“I know about Project Marvel, and how the movies match real life sometimes, so will this end the same way?”

“Of course not,” Coulson says. “The fanboys’d hate it. Besides, Thor 2 was finalised months ago.”

“Is it any good?”

“That’s classified.”

“Does anyone die?” His lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. “Blink once for yes and twice for no.”

He blinks slowly, three times, and asks, “Weren’t you leaving?”

“But you won’t leave us alone, will you?” Sofie persists, “That’s what you do; you spy on people, so you’ll spy on us.”

“You’re not that interesting.”

“Come on,” Tove urges, taking Sofie’s hand. “Let’s go before he wipes your memories or something.”

"Oh, before you go," Coulson digs into his pocket and hands Sofie a thin slip of paper. "For the laptop."

Sofie skims it over. Her jaw then drops and she breathes, "Oh my God."

Tove has to drag her away. They meander back to the edge of town lazily, not quite ready. As they walk, Tove flings her arms around the other two and pulls them closer.

“So, Ida; are you going to convert to paganism now? You know, ‘Love Thy God’ and all?”

Sofie cackles. 

“Stop it,” Ida warns. Her corners of her mouth perk just a little.

“I wouldn’t have thought you were his type,” Sofie adds. “You’re not a horse, a rock, a man or his brother-”

With the hint of a laugh, she shouts, “STOP IT."

“No, but seriously,” Tove interjects. “What happens to you now?”

“Well, I’m going home, then I’m going to sleep-”

“Ida, I’m only worried.”

“Honestly? I have no idea whatsoever.” She's first to leave, untangling herself from Tove’s arms. As she runs up to her doorstep, Tove shouts, "Hey, don't forget: school on Monday!"

Ida groans, rolling her eyes, then steps inside. As soon as the door closes behind her, Lukas rushes out into the hall.

“Where the he-” His voice fades the moment he notices. Stepping closer, he cautiously brushes the scar on her cheek. Ida looks down. “Did he do this?”

“No,” she asserts. "You're home early, it's like, 2 in the morning."

"I've only been back an hour," he mutters, “Ida, don’t change the subject. You don’t have to cover for him-”

“I’m not! Please, believe me-”

“You know you can tell me anything-”

“Lukas, stop!” She snaps. Tears well in her eyes as she remembers each bad thing in turn, as her mind tumbles out of control, and she starts to hyperventilate. Lukas stares at her in shock, until he relents and wraps his arms around her. Almost unconsciously, she huddles against him as she cries.

“I-I…” He begins to stutter, and then sighs, “I’m sorry. You don’t have to speak until you want to.”

“Don’t tell Mum-”

“Shush, don’t think about that right now,” he whispers, stroking her hair. “Just breathe, ok? You’ll be ok. It’ll all be ok.”

Against his chest, he feels her nodding.


	19. Chapter 19

Whatever magic brings them home lacks the accuracy of the Bifrost. Instead of the observatory, as beforehand, the two materialise in a darkened hall. Before them, odd flickers of white light dance against the decaying walls. They turn and notice the well behind them. Its waters shine in spite of the shadows. The reflections cast light across the rest of the corridor, revealing roots tangled around the well that then rise up to form a tree.

Before the well, around one particular root, stand three women. They make no one move, curved around the wood, as though they were carved into it.

Skuld looks up. A dagger-like smile breaks her tranquil closed mouth, “It worked!”

“What worked?” Loki demands, striding forward, as Thor strolls after him.

“You may leave us,” Verdandi tells Thor. “Await your brother outside.”

When Thor obeys, leaving Loki to the Norns, Loki persists through gritted teeth, “What worked?”

“Our plan,” Urdr answers.

“Ah,” he relents. “But of course. You hoped to return me as a changed man.”

“We did.”

“How can you be so certain?” He taunts.

“We can, because your change is as clear as you are now before us,” Verdandi states, gesturing towards him. “This Loki is not the one who left.”

“We’ll see about that,” he sneers, turning to leave.

“Did we allow you to depart?” Urdr roars, stopping him.

He faces them and coolly answers, “You did not.”

“Do not think of betraying any of us now,” Verdandi then warns.

“Where’s the fun to be had not?” He dares, grinning.

“For you owe that young woman your life, and there are many here who will see that you repay that debt.”

“Why might I owe her my life?”

“She loved you,” Urdr answers. The words fall from her mouth like snowflakes in winter, or blossom in spring; as natural as the breath in his lungs. But, no matter how normal she may make it, he hears only the thunderous pulsing of his blood in his veins. The noise makes him aware of the feel of her lips, still fresh upon his own, as it sours. His mouth dries.

Skuld’s laugh emerges from the shade. As loud as an explosion, it pierces his ears like breaking ice, “No matter how much you sharpen your mind, the knife remains dull.”

As she very intentionally quotes him, word for word, her steely eyes catch his own from beneath her black hood. They eat into him like a winter wind. He cocks a brow at her.

“What does love prove?”

“It proves you can care for another,” Verdandi states, as if it should be obvious. “You’re still capable of basic empathy.”

“Thor professes to ‘love’ me, yet I do not owe my life to him. Or do I?”

“Even we could not know how deeply in debt you are. But no, you do not owe your brother your life - this time. Despite what either of you might fool yourselves into believing, there is no eliminating your love for each other. It will be there each day for as long as you both shall live, and will grow older still. But you owe _her_ , because it was new.”

“So my worth was dependent upon another?” He snaps, disgusted. The words rushes from his mouth before he can think, “I’d rather be dead than be slave to such an idea.”

“We could arrange it,” Skuld warns. Her grin deepens. “We could arrange hers.”

His fist tightens and his jaw clenches. Bile bubbles in his throat. He curses himself for ever having fallen.

“Worry not,” She encourages heartily, in a vain attempt to calm him. Her voice sounds too much like laughter to reassure him. Though he glares at her, she continues to look him in the eye.

“We’d hoped for this,” Urdr adds.

“You’d hoped?” He belittles. “Yet you had not chosen her?”

“We had chosen your circumstance, although we had envisioned that the plan would succeed. But whether or not it would work with her specifically was another matter.”

“What?" He mutters, unable to stop himself. "Our paths crossed. How can they therefore not be tied?”

“Yes, for that moment, because she chose to go. Everything is a choice. Fate is nothing but a choice.”

“Do you control anything anymore, or have you been made entirely redundant?”

“You are dismissed.” Verdandi commands abruptly. Her brusque voice forces a smirk from him. “But mark this, Laufeyson: we will be watching you.”

 _You should be_. He bows and turns to stride out. As the hall narrows, it grows cleaner, and more golden, more like home. He nearly walks right past Thor.

“Nervous, brother?” Thor teases.

Loki tenses. His fist and jaw stiffen again. He offers Thor a quick, clinical glance, and holds his gaze, “Never.”

The lies are effortless, like breathing. Heads held high and proud, the two walk through the palace and into the throne room, up to the foot of Odin’s throne. Thor kneels but Loki stands, his pride mutating into arrogance.

“Do you think yourself exempt?” Odin booms, without a trace of emotion.

“It’s good to see you as well.”

Thor stands and places a hand on Loki’s shoulder, gaining his attention. It seems to anchor him, but he shakes it off.

“Remember where you are.”

Loki’s lips press into a thin line as he obliges with a solemn, respectful nod.

“Tell me Loki,” Odin begins, “Do you desire to be queen?”

“Were I queen, I could still rule better than you have,” Loki quips. From the corner of his eye, he sees Thor smile. “But I have a proposition, a way to resolve our little… tantrum, once and for all.”

Odin nods deeply, full-vested in his thoughts, and the brothers wait. A touch of nervous anticipation perches itself in Loki’s mind, impatiently ordering Odin to answer.

“I will hear you.”

Loki smirks. With arms wide open and feet evenly placed, his body language purposely honest, he begins.

“Thor and I are both extremely different, yet we both embody qualities that sit well upon the throne of Asgard: courage and diplomacy, honesty and patience, loyalty and intelligence. Fate believes that neither of us can be without the other, and you yourself once told us that we were both born to be kings. Thus can we not both be kings?”

Loki anticipates a response, wondering if Odin could hear the lies. He watches as Odin looks him right over and turns his attention to Thor. A familiar sense of disappointment resurfaces and, for a moment, Loki wonders why he ever hoped differently. He flexes his fist until his arm aches, cursing under his breath. His resentment vanishes.

“Thor, what say you?”

“There is no other more qualified to rule beside me,” Thor remarks. He spares Loki a warm sideways glance. Loki ignores him.

“Then, in the short time I have left, you must prove yourself truly worthy of the task. You have earned your place among us, now you must earn your place at his throne.”

“In that case,” Loki contends, curious as to what else he can claim, “I propose that I be treated with respect fitting of my rank and be given my proper freedoms within Asgard.”

“Prove yourself worthy of them, and I will grant them.”

Loki scowls. His animosity flares again. _The day you grant me what is rightfully mine will be the day I kneel._

Odin then addresses Thor again, “Thor, there is much we must discuss. Loki, you are to return to your chambers.”

“As you wish,” he obliges, unable to help slight derision as it eases into his tone to dull the aftertaste of servitude. It feels so foreign, so wrong, and so extraneous, that it sickens him. He leaves. A pair of guards trail after him, the sound of their boots ringing in his ears. When he halts, they do.

“You are aware that I will not do anything, are you not?”

“Mere orders, sire.” One of them answers. Loki scowls then continues on his way. They still follow. These corridors are familiar, even though he has not walked them in years, and still gleam as golden and as glorious as the legends foretell. A minute part of him expects Ida to walk alongside him, wide-eyed and so out of place, gazing at her new surroundings. She’d be in awe, excited words streaming from her mouth, and he finds himself smiling at the notion of dirtied trainer prints on the ground.

The inkling flees from his mind the minute he reminds himself she isn’t there.

The guards stop following him when he reaches his chambers. He opens the door, at last able to embrace some privacy. Much to his surprise, nothing has changed. It was his firm belief that his presence would have been phased out with time. Yet his bed and trappings and every detail has remained the same.

However, something has changed. By the window is a woman, her blonde hair cascading down her back, looking out of the window. She both carries and dresses herself regally, and holds her head high as she searches the skies for someone. At the same time pensive, hopeful and sad, the sight is timeless, compelling him to believe that she has loyally observed for an age or even more. There’s not one doubt in his mind as to who she is.

“Mother?”

For a moment, he thinks she might not have heard. Yet she turns and looks upon him, her mouth somewhat agape, then she rushes to embrace him, wraps her arms around him, and her tears sink into his armour. After an awkward pause, he holds her back.

“I have missed you so much,” she tells him, and even he can not mistake her affection. “I am so glad to have you finally home.”

Tears sting his eyes, yet he blinks them back. But even so, he can hear weakness in his voice when he admits, “As am I.”

“You look as if nothing’s changed.” She cups his face in her hands, and her tearful eyes search his face for a sign of change. There might be something, something missing his eyes or some grief, yet overall, it is as if her son is home unharmed.

“Did they tell you what happened?”

She nods, looking away.

“Before you spoke to Odin, a messenger came to us from the Norns.” She winces, but continues, “He was nothing if not honest, and just as... detailed.”

 _How kind_.He meanders over to the window and stares up at the stars, as Ida would, trying to make sense of space. At the thought of her, the whole façade feels unnecessary. Why return to worry, to contempt, to uselessness, when she was right there?

Frigga nears him, and rests her hand on his shoulder. “It’ll work out.”

Loki nods.

“I best leave you to recover from your journey,” she tells him, walking away. “You will find everything as it was, and I will no doubt see you shortly, perhaps this evening.”

“Until then,” he bids, as she leaves.

Alone, thoughts of Ida resurface, and he lets them. She was a game at first. He did, after all, nothing better to do. And it was fun.

But somehow, the moment she held his hand, it formed a crack. The ice began to melt, she'd found her way in (perhaps he'd just let her), and he fell. Like a fool.

He fell for how she looked at him, as if something worth nurturing still grew in the ruinous carcass they'd tossed aside. How his name sounded safe in her mouth, safe from contempt, from insult or from betrayal. How she shone.

There might have been signs that she had her own sadness. He was just too swaddled in his to see it. But heavens know neither loved each other for the dark thoughts, for the nightmares or for the suffering. _Her pain is her pain,_ he reminds himself. He knows her day will come, for she’ll find it herself.

For now, his glory is all Asgard can provide. This is his realm. This room, these walls, and these meaningless, superficial trappings are his…. That title, ‘Prince of Asgard’, is his, and that power is _his_.

That is why the façade is necessary, why it always has been – it is power. Without it, he’s a decrepit, empty shell. With it, he can at last win.

And no-one, in any realm, will see him coming.

How boring would it be, he muses, to be predictable? To act as they expect? They expect the trickster. They await him with held breaths. Then he will be a merciful Lord and let them breathe. Then, in the same moment, he will circumvent their will and morals, and bring the corrupt down. The autocrat will fall, and he will rise, as more than they ever imagined. The universe will never know another like him.

It will see the day when, at last, he will be victorious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, look. I actually finished something for once. This is pretty much where I'd like to leave it after over a year of trying to write this, but even so plot bunnies are going at it in my head, so I don't really know what's going on.
> 
> Post-Thor 2 edit: Now I really have no idea.


End file.
